


Suspended In Your Song

by ajwolf, AlexWSpark



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Accountant Yuuri Katsuki, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Speakeasy, Anxiety Attacks, Bartender Victor Nikiforov, Confident Katsuki Yuuri, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Hipsters, M/M, Oral Sex, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-03-16 02:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13626288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajwolf/pseuds/ajwolf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexWSpark/pseuds/AlexWSpark
Summary: Yuuri is trapped - a monotonous job, a corporate suit, a dull life, and bumper-to-bumper traffic, day in and day out. It’s a never-ending cycle of tedium that has slowly chipped away at his brain until he’s winded up here, on Sunset Boulevard, gripping his steering wheel for dear life as he tries to breathe. The last thing he expects is for anyone to show him a hint of concern. But the universe has ideas, and as Yuuri stares up at blue eyes, pink-hair, a full sleeve of tattoos, and suspenders over a crisp white shirt, he starts to wonder if this is what he's been missing all along...





	1. Speak Easy My Darling

Numbers. Spreadsheets. Cubicles. _Yawn._

Streets. Cars. Horns. _Shit._

Rinse. Repeat. Forever. _Dies._

Yuuri thumps his head against the steering wheel repeatedly, words mincing his brain into mush as the 101 grinds to a halt yet _again_. How an eight-lane highway can simply _not_ move is beyond him, but the combination of a Dodger game, a concert at the Hollywood Bowl, and ‘Thursday’ has created the perfect storm of _fuck_.

His headache pulses as violently as the massive trailer jostling next to him; it would be just his luck to be crushed to death by what looked to be a giant cross shaped sign while trapped in this particularly dense corner of hell. He can just make out the words ‘Find Peace with the Lord’ from under the tarp and can’t help the hollow laugh that escapes him at the irony. Yuuri is pretty sure that prayers are about as effective as a placebo because he’s been crying out for mercy for the last forty-five minutes to no avail.

He lets out a groan of frustration, wrenching at his shirt collar and loosening the noose of a tie around his neck, scraping thread-baring lines into his thigh. He's one giant knot; even his tongue is tied into incoherence and his stomach twists worse than that one time he ingested a matcha kale smoothie from the up and coming health bar across the street from his office. Needless to say, the priceless inflection of Taylor Swift’s ‘We Are Never Getting Back Together’ was timing and trolling at its finest.

The raw vegan craze sweeping the city could bite his burger-fed ass.

His foot lifts from the brake, allowing his vintage Camaro to roll all of a few inches, before coming to yet another infuriating halt. There’s about an hour and a half of this to endure (if he’s lucky), then an evening of dragging his tired body around his apartment, only to pass out in a heap of unfolded laundry so he can do this all over again tomorrow. And, because the universe likes to remind him of his fantastic life choices, he also gets to spend eight to ten hours boxed into a cubicle, staring at page after page of numbers on behalf of the six clients assigned to him at his accounting firm.

In an irony of timing, he catches the tail-end of a jingle for one of said clients blaring out of the window of a neighboring motorist. The spokesman’s cry of ‘Or your mattress is FREE!’ makes him want to scream into the abyss.

“Zero, zero, one, one, zero, zero, zero, one,” Yuuri mutters, a grimace of a smile peeking through his gloom; he fell asleep last night to Bender’s Big Score, a habitual rewatch when he can’t think past getting his shoes off at the door. The machine language is oddly soothing for precisely four minutes until Yuuri realizes, and too late at that, that his mind has baited him into the red zone. The recurring numbers become nothing but a whisper, then a choking force, then a shuddering breath that goes taut on the inhale. Yuuri twines his hands together, shuts his eyes, pushes his face close to the air conditioning vent; _you can do this, you can do this! Breathe, BREATHE!_

Except the Californian sun is a stretch of molten barbed wire on his exposed skin, and his glasses are slipping to his nostrils again, and the guy behind him has sounded his horn no less than a hundred times in the last minute, and his phone has pinged over twenty new emails since he left the office—

_I can’t fucking do this!_

He slams his foot on the gas, front tires swerving to the right, cutting off at least six people, barely making it to the Sunset Boulevard exit, which is both better and worse than the highway. It might be less claustrophobic, but the expanse of lights make the starts and stops more frantic, and  pedestrians are neglecting any sort of crossing etiquette; Yuuri grinds his head against the car horn, shoved from the edge right off the fucking cliff.

After fifteen minutes he gives up, jerking his car into the first spot that appears, not caring where he is or when he’ll get home because does it even matter anymore? He shuts off the ignition and curls in on himself, tears itchy on his cheeks, breathing fit for a wind tunnel. _Pathetic! Fucking pathetic!_ Yuuri thinks wryly, swiping roughly at his still leaking eyes. What the fuck is he doing, falling apart in his car like this? _Again._ Why does he insist on playing hooky with his life? Counting the hours, marking the days, sitting in a pile of overtime on weekends, _existing_ not _living._

It wasn’t _this_ bad when he started out, but as time moved forward and responsibilities grew for the sake of profit margins and seniority, so too did Yuuri’s stress levels. Back then he had weekends to himself, and the emails stopped after five. He had time for a life, movies, hobbies, friends, sex! Now he was reduced to _maybe_ one evening to just be, and it was slowly bleeding him dry.

“I swear, Yuuri, you’re going to burnout at this rate,” Phichit commented some weeks ago. His friend had a knack for delivering matter-of-fact statements in a wholly concerned way. Yuuri, unfortunately, could only blink dazedly at him in the diner, blueberry pancakes forgotten in lieu of his short-circuited motor functions. No matter how much he wished it wasn’t, he knew it was the correct assumption, foreshadowing yet another upsetting commute.

Yuuri walks along such a straight line even when there’s absolutely nothing about him that’s straight. Fear makes the direction staunch, stupidity makes his decisions persist, and stability makes him feign gratefulness for the drab traipse that is his life.

And what’s the compromise?

Yuuri hugs his chest, tightening the hold as his breath turns to hisses, trapped steam in the corroded belly of his own tedious existence. He wants to quit the corporate jail he’s subjected himself to for far too long, wants to rid himself of those stuffy blazers and drag out the box of vests and bowties he has hidden away in his closet; he wants to sing at _Giacometti's_ on a Friday night again instead of the substitute bar he confined himself to all those months ago, wants to throw his head back and _let go._

He stares straight ahead, wishing he could pull his knees to his chest, cursing the confined space of his driver’s seat. He wishes he were home and not this busy LA street, surrounded by a blur of people and places and things that he could give less of a fuck about right then. On another day, or another life, he would love to wander the neighborhood and sample the sheer diversity of life it had to offer; but in his state of near panic he longs for the cool, dark comfort of his covers and a box of Thin Mints he kept in the freezer for just such a day.

He’d scream himself hoarse too if his neighbors wouldn’t complain.

The knock on his window has him at least fulfilling that desire, admittedly, the most humiliating way. Yuuri’s head snaps to the side, body a jack-in-the-box of surprise as he jolts and curses and slams his head against the roof of the car. The man outside, stumbling mid-knock, slaps a hand over his mouth, expression a clear etch of secondhand pain. Yuuri slumps in his seat, staring at the artful coif of cotton candy pink bangs that whisks playfully into glossy platinum, a prime introduction to a regretful wince of a smile and vivid blue eyes now wide with concern. The crisp ivory of his shirt isn’t at all subdued behind the glass and neither is the natural tan or elasticated navy stripe of his buckled suspenders. He’s holding a bottle of flavored water, pink grapefruit by the looks of it. Yuuri eyes the tattoo that swirls from wrist to elbow where his shirt is folded; the series of concentric circles, floral arrangements and streaks of bold color has Yuuri twitching, mouth falling open in shock...and interest. What a time to indulge his weaknesses.

“I’m sorry!” the stranger says, voice faraway as Yuuri continues to gape vacantly at him, “I saw you pull up looking like you were about to faint. Are you okay? Would you like some water?”

Yuuri blinks and so does the man as he gives the bottle a little shake, a nervous smile giving rise to rosy cheeks. It’s strangely comforting if somewhat inconceivable; Yuuri turns to peer at the traffic, then at his backseat then back to this admittedly beautiful guy who, despite his own growing fluster, seems determined not to move until Yuuri says or does something.

But _what_ exactly? Because he’s a disheveled and debilitated mess of a nine-to-five caricature, with nothing up his own sleeve that could possibly interest this man (other than his leather cuff which he keeps carefully hidden under full length sleeves). The offer of water, however, is an oasis in a particular congested desert and Yuuri can use the reviver for the long, harrowing evening ahead.

He unlocks the doors, the click echoing on the outside, surprising the man standing there. He seems stunned for ten long seconds, until Yuuri’s continued acquiesce finally breaks through the shock and he decides to get in, settling easily into the front seat. His dress pants are oxford blue, washed, well-worn but obviously cared for; the hem is tucked into polished combat boots that sit slack on his calves, laces bowed loosely over the tongue. Yuuri’s twitch morphs into a warm quiver, buttery tingles moseying down his spine. It’s an invisible reaction and Yuuri thinks that even if it was somehow noticeable, it wouldn't matter since his eyes are still brimming and that’s all the stranger is fixed on.

“Drink, please,” he says, pushing the bottle into Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri sighs, not bothering to question this inexplicable act of kindness, guzzling the entire thing in three extended gulps, the sweetened drink a welcomed relief for his raw and prickling throat.

“Thanks,” Yuuri’s voice is weighted with exhaustion, “This is really nice of you.”

“Don't mention it. I'm just happy it helps, even a little,” the pink and silver-haired stranger smiles, “Would you like something else?”

“This is enough trouble on your part, really it’s–”

“No trouble at all. I was just leaving the bookshop,” he points to the building opposite and Yuuri looks past his shoulder to the store in question and the restaurant next to it, “when I saw you. How do you feel?”

Yuuri rubs unconsciously at his breastbone, the strain from too many labored breaths still cementing much of his chest, “I’m…” he sighs, “I just need a minute. Maybe five.”

“Well, in that case,” the man hesitates, touching idly at his wrist and the tattoo there - a hoop of cherry blossoms that look real enough for Yuuri to pick, “I was about to get some dinner from _Nikolai’s_. It’s my favorite spot in the area and just so happens to be right next to the shop. Join me? It’s not like you’re going anywhere fast in this mess.” He motions to the absolutely crawling street traffic that will likely only worsen in the upcoming hour as more people transition from commuting to nighttime escapades; there was a thriving bar scene in the neighborhood that always drew a sizeable crowd no matter the day. Yuuri’s eyes glaze over, revulsion yanking at his frown as he glances out of the window.

“I mean, only if you want to, of course,” the man plucks at his suspender and pulls a face, “I’m sorry, you really don’t need any more stress in your day. Feel free to throw me out of your car and ignore me.”

Who the _fuck_ is this devilishly handsome good Samaritan with the sudden bout of boldness, offering not only his drink to a perfect stranger, but springing straight into a dinner invitation? And why is his charm suppler than the leather cuff gracing Yuuri’s wrist? And how has he managed, in the space of about ten sentences, to give Yuuri’s heart rate something else to concentrate on besides his nauseating anxiety? _This is so crazy, but…_ His attention pulls yet again to the road ahead and the bumper-to-bumper backup that remains a daunting cacophony that will surely age him another ten years. It’s not really a matter of deliberating options at this point — the man is stunning, and presents Yuuri with an escape — even if it’s one evening out of the hundreds he'll withstand alone, even if they never meet again and Yuuri goes back to solitary despair in his car, at least he can look back on this moment and know he had the courage to say…

“Yes.” He takes a long breath, enjoying his own momentary boldness, almost surprised by how sure he sounds. “I wouldn’t mind waiting out this traffic, but If we’re going to have dinner, your name would be a good start.” He rubs his eyes, letting the smallest hint of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. There’s an involuntary sniffle in there as well, but he ignores it, choosing instead to grab hold of this distraction in the form of a dinner invitation.

“Oh, right.” The man’s smile bubbles carefree and bright, and Yuuri thinks he might go blind from it. "Victor, Victor Nikiforov. And you?”

“I’m Yuuri. It's nice to meet you, Victor.”

 

* * *

 

 _Nikolai’s_ sits between a cramped laundromat and the small indie bookshop, the sign on the door proclaiming it to be _The First Step._ Its shelves appear so packed through the window front that it’s a wonder to Yuuri how anyone can maneuver through them; or that the older gentleman dusting one of the shelves hasn’t ever been buried beneath an avalanche at one point or another. The man looks up just long enough to scowl in Yuuri’s direction before returning to his task. Yuuri speeds his steps, nearly colliding into Victor’s back as he opens the neighboring door.

Victor smiles patiently, ushering them inside and leading Yuuri to what looks to be a favorite booth; they certainly have their pick of seats being the only patrons in the restaurant. He sees Victor nod to the man behind the counter who, despite being of similar age, appear much less intimidating than the person in the bookshop; he smiles at them both before heading into the back...and never returning.

Yuuri looks around, noting the worn and warm comfort of a typical, basic cafe, a staple of LA food culture. The walls are a mix of simple beige and varnished woods, with a few black and white pictures adoring the space; the floor is basic, unpatterned linoleum that’s well-buffed and not much else. There’s nothing about this place that screams ‘favorite spot’ or ‘hidden gem’, but Yuuri supposes that’s the very definition of such a thing.

“Um,” Yuuri drums nervous fingers against the tabletop, unsure of what to do. “How do we order?”

“We don’t,” Victor says with a wink, leaning back comfortably. “It’s not that kind of place, but I promise it’s good. Nikolai and his grandson make some of the best Russian food in the city, and I would argue, in the country. They consider ordering a personal offense. Just trust that they’ll make you something delicious; I promise you won’t regret it.”

Yuuri peeks back at the kitchen just in time to see a mop of blonde hair disappear behind the portholed double-door and into the bowels of the restaurant, greeting Nikolai with a questioning tone in quiet Russian.

“So, what do you think?”

Yuuri purses his lips; despite Victor’s playfulness, the delicious waft from the kitchen and the relief of being able to stretch his legs, he’s still pretty confused, “Well when you suggested going to dinner I sort of expected menus and maybe napkins,” he says with little concern for his delivery , motioning to the empty table between them without so much as a salt shaker or a single fork.

Victor watches him, amused. “Feisty.” It’s a single observation, a candid response to Yuuri’s limited filter; he blushes on replaying the tone in his head, the impatience a grating note on what has otherwise been a fascinating fifteen minutes. Victor doesn’t seem offended though; if anything, he looks at Yuuri and _reminisces_ , the soft slope of his lips impossible to misinterpret. How Yuuri became a catalyst for such nostalgia is yet another question to add to the growing list.

“Sorry, I'm not exactly good company after work hours. I didn't mean to–”

“Don't apologize. You were just being honest and I kind of like your brand of honesty.”

_Who is this guy? Why he being so nice to me?_

“So, do you live around here or…?” Yuuri asks, wondering how someone would find a place as nondescript as this.

Victor breaks into a smirk as if enjoying some sort of private joke. “Actually I do, but I work even closer. It’s a nice neighborhood and I don’t mind the short commute, something I’m sure you can appreciate.”

Yuuri groans and nods. “Thanks again for saving me. I just _couldn’t_ any more, you know?”

“I do. I did that daily grind for years before I changed things up and came to this neighborhood. It sucks the life out of you. I could never go back.”

“What did you do?” Yuuri asks curiously. Considering the man’s tattoos and pink hair, and despite Los Angeles’ more casual attitude to personal expression, he can’t quite imagine Victor fitting in at a typical nine-to-five.

“I used to be an Intellectual Property lawyer with Strauss and Feld. It’s not that I hated what I did; I was considered one of the best in the firm and the money wasn’t exactly pocket change. But…” he sighs, “but when you start waking up in the morning asking yourself ‘What’s the point’, it comes down to deciding who’s more important. Them or you.”

Yuuri nods, knowing the feeling all too well. “And what do you do now?”

“My day job,” Victor starts, but is cut off by a clunk of plates on the table top, accompanied by a stack of napkins and two large glasses of iced tea with condensation rippling down the sides of them. Yuuri looks up to the blonde teenage scowling at a grinning Victor, familiarity thick in their silent communication. He makes brief eye contact with Yuuri, less of a glower and more appraising, before walking off.

Yuuri’s wide-eyed reverie is only broken by Victor’s soft chuckle. “Sorry, it’s a Russian thing. Nikolai is much friendlier.”

“I’m guessing that was the grandson?”

Victor nods. “He’s an angry kitten, but a damn good cook.” A shout of indignant Russian comes from the back and Victor barks a laugh into his hand, blushing slightly as he smiles at Yuuri. “Shall we?” he says softly, motioning to the food in front of them.

There is quite an assortment to revel in. Victor has some sort of meat and potato stew with only an overly large spoon with which to eat it, while Yuuri has a small pile of pastries from which to choose from. The steam drifting off them is intoxicating and Yuuri can’t resist taking a bite, moaning in pleasure as a nuance of flavors burst on his tongue.

“Told you,” Victor grins, taking a bite of his own dish. “As I was saying, my day job is more of a temporary thing now. I freelance with small businesses and independent entities looking to establish certain trademarks or copyright for their work. There are a lot of small artists, musicians, and family-based business, for example, who need the advice but can’t afford the usual price tag that lawyers tend to charge in this city. My fees are well below standard because I like working at this scale. It’s more diverse and less formal than the work I used to do at the firm.”

“And your _not_ day job?” Yuuri asks, genuine interest driving him forward when he’d normally hold back.

“Equivalent exchange, Yuuri, da?” Victor smiles encouragingly and Yuuri picks at his delicately flaking pastry, the pieces falling away as quickly as his own ambivalence.

“I’m a public accountant. My specialty is auditing but I’m pretty much handling all of my clients financial planning now. Lots of spreadsheets, lots of balances, and lots of clients who think they know better than you.” 

“Sounds…” Victor taps a finger to his lip and shrugs, “well, it sounds really boring, if I’m being honest. No offense.”

“None taken,” Yuuri says, “I think the same. But I’m used to the monotony and it pays the rent so…” Yuuri gives a dismissive hum, “Okay, a deal’s a deal. Equivalent exchange.”

Victor smirks. “I’m a bartender, actually.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “How’d you go from a lawyer to that?”

“I literally stumbled into it and it was a part-time gig until I woke up one morning and decided to resign from the firm.”

Yuuri finds himself envying that kind of fearlessness, “Just like that?”

“Well, no. It’s a much longer story than that, lots of sleepless nights and visions of going completely bald,” Victor sweeps a hand through his hair with a mildly concerned frown.

“Are you happy?” Yuuri asks, and it’s more for himself than he wants to admit.

Victor’s smile is an answer all its own; his reciprocal question wrinkles the edges of Yuuri’s heart, “Are you?”

And Yuuri can’t answer, busying himself with several bites of his meat-filled pastry as he mulls over the fascinating puzzle that is one Victor Nikiforov; and the more he turns it over, the more frustrated he gets. It’s silly to be envious of Victor, ridiculous to be comparing the disparity between them. But he’s kind of a dumpster fire, as Phichit would say, and a panic attack on the side of Sunset Boulevard only serves to solidify that description. Victor’s puzzle might not be finished, but his pieces are in neat piles while Yuuri’s own is uselessly scattered. He doesn’t realize how dejected his expression is until Victor whispers “Hey”; Yuuri glances up and finds the same concern Victor showed him in the car.

“I know what you’re thinking and that was a rhetorical question. Trust me, there’s no magical solution to things like that. Any answer you give me now would just be a Band-Aid and we both know it.”

“How do you…?”

“Lawyer, remember?” Victor sets down his spoon when Yuuri stares at him, unconvinced. “How about we balance the ledger, then? Tell me about yourself, good things only, and I’ll match them with some of my own, ah, _questionable_ traits.”

Yuuri considers this for all a moment before nodding. “Do you want me to start?”

“I don’t mind,” Victor is grinning now. “Let’s see. Oh! Because of the way I dress, everyone assumes I’m really into those obscure indie bands that no one’s ever heard of when the truth is I’m way more into pop. Give me Taylor or Britney over someone’s garage band any day. It’s annoying because people are always asking me for music recommendations and I’m worthless for it.”

Yuuri chuckles softly. “Who can blame you? Britney shaped my childhood, and Taylor’s an _artist_.”

“I know, right!” Victor giggles and Yuuri wants to record the sound and set it as his alert for basically every good reminder in his phone for the rest of his life.

“I play guitar and sing,” Yuuri reciprocates, “though not as often as I would like. Most of it is currently confined to my apartment and shower.”

“How come?”

Yuuri gives a weak smile, “I don’t have the time and...I get too embarrassed to ever do it in public.”

Victor’s cursory frown is ambiguous; he continues merrily before Yuuri can question it.  “While I can handle whiskey or any so-called sophisticated alcohol, I’ll take a fruit-filled cocktail over all of it ninety percent of the time.”

“How is that questionable?” Yuuri argues, unable to keep the laughter out of his eyes as he leans forward. “Who the fuck wants to drink a tree for anything other than bragging rights?”

Victor laughs at that. “Hmm, well, how about rather than some sort of total hipster cred pet like a rat, I’ve got a Poodle?”

“Okay, that’s just adorable,” Yuuri sighs longingly at the thought. “I’ve always wanted one. Is yours Standard?” Victor nods emphatically. “I’d get a Toy personally, because I’m a _such_ a badass.” And for the first time that evening, he returns one of Victor’s winks.

And Victor _blushes_.

It’s different from his reddened cheeks when they were outside; this has nothing to do with Yuuri bumping his head or crying over his day. Victor is... _enjoying_ himself, enjoying Yuuri’s company, savoring every bit of information Yuuri offers him. The prettiest pink waterfalls down his neck and gives his hair a run for its money. It’s beautiful. Everything about him is beautiful; his appearance, his voice, the way he accommodates Yuuri like it’s the easiest diversion to his evening. But the most beautiful thing of all is his kindness; that soft acceptance has Yuuri practically on his knees in reverence.

At least Yuuri can clearly see that maybe he’s not alone in that devout position.

They are interrupted again as Nikolai drops off a small plate of dried sweet fruits with a kind smile. He murmurs something to Victor in Russian, eyes lighting with more eloquence than his few words; Yuuri can’t believe it but Victor’s blush only deepens as Nikolai saunters away.

“Do you want to see where I bartend?” Victor asks suddenly, and Yuuri can’t help but notice Nikolai’s chuckle from somewhere behind the counter. “I’m technically off tonight, but it’s always open for me. I could make you a drink, if you’d like?”

Yuuri’s head moves through all four cardinal points in his indecision. He has work in the morning and still has to fight traffic to get the rest of the way home and a million other excuses as to why he can’t, but none of them held any weight compared to the hopeful look on Victor’s face.

“I’d love to,” his response earns him a breathtaking smile as Victor stands and extends a hand; he lets go after Yuuri wiggles out of the booth, but the linger of a fingertip on his palm tosses Yuuri’s heart into a tornado. He watches as Victor pulls out his phone and reaches over the counter, tapping it down on the credit card reader, a cheerful ping signaling the completed transaction.

“See you later Nikolai, Yura,” Victor calls out, as he holds the door open for Yuuri.

“Thank you!” Yuuri adds hastily, hoping he gets the opportunity to come back and gush a little more to the pair of fantastic cooks.

“Have fun,” Nikolai all but sings, and Yuuri notices the blonde teen watching them from just behind his grandfather, a curious look on his face that Yuuri just can’t parse as Victor follows him outside.

Much to his surprise, they really don’t go far. In fact, Victor pulls open the door to _The First Step_ with a smug little smirk. “After you,” and Yuuri is far too bemused to argue.

The bookshop is a narrow course of literary chaos. The single corridor has about an inch more space than the width of Yuuri’s shoulders, and his initial observation was definitely right – one has to be practicing at least basic yoga to maneuver to the higher points of certain shelves. But there’s a warmth about the place, an understated welcome that ghosts over the finely crafted wood, exposed brickwork and single conditioned leather couch that somehow fits comfortably within the scope of this impossible place.

At least it feels warm until he comes eye-to-eye with the grumpy looking older man who is sitting on said couch, book in his hand, glaring at them, and in particular Victor, as if their mere presence in his shop is an affront to all his sensibilities.

“Don’t mind Yakov,” Victor says with a cheerful grin, earning him a low grumble from the man in Russian. Yuuri is starting to get the impression he’s stepped into some sort of secret Russian mafia front, and Nikolai and Yakov are the Don’s of this family. What that would make Victor, he has no idea, but he follows him still further into the store, the earthy scent of paper left to the ages defining his every step. The area opens to accommodate a narrow counter, cash register and a swathe of shelves built into the walls; there, they’re finally able to stand side by side.

“You’d have to be an expert magician to make a drink in here,” Yuuri muses; if Victor hears the uncertain note in his voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead walking to the shelf behind the register, taps a finger against one book and two and three, pausing at the fourth.

“I'm not an expert magician per se, but I do know how to turn a room. Are you ready?”

“I guess so?” Yuuri answers, wondering what game Victor is playing.

Victor pouts, “You’re going to have to do better than that, Yuuri.”

Yuuri tilts his head curiously, lets the smirk take hold of his lips, impossible to resist the cute way Victor’s lip pops out at him. “I’m ready.”

“ _Alohomora,”_ Victor intones, fingers tucked above the spine of a broad tome; he pulls at it and Yuuri whispers “What the fuck” when the entire bookcase swings silently into a sizable passageway. Victor spins on his heel and beams, so pleased with himself that Yuuri has to laugh, unable to recall the last time he's come undone to so many stitches.

“A speakeasy?” Yuuri smile widens until he’s lost in a flurry of laughter as Victor nods, a finger pressed to his lip to indicate the secret nature of the establishment; his eyes, however, are alight with excitement and mischief, and Yuuri can only marvel at the openness Victor continues to show him.

Yuuri catches his breath and joins Victor at the entrance, “So, tell me, what’s the password? You know, for future reference.”

Victor's eyes go wide, a boyish eagerness that tells Yuuri that he’s in for something extraordinary _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We are sooooo excited to share this joint project with all of you and we hope you like it! It's been a blast for us to work together and blend our styles. We're both super excited for this story (I mean we _only_ have 65 pages of notes, nbd). Tags will get updated as we go, but as a little tease you should all know this is gonna _earn_ that E-rating. ;) 
> 
> Comments, kudos, shares and love are appreciated! Thanks again for joining us on this ride!


	2. Behind the Bookcase

Yuuri is a minimalist, always has been, always will be. His apartment is an open plan of lustrous wood finishings and polished stainless-steel fixtures that were already fitted into the space when he signed the lease. All of it appears brand new, untouched, as though a ghost moves through the place and not a human. There’s not a stray magnet on the refrigerator or ornate frame on his bedside table; even the linens and toiletries are industrial in their color scheme, bland and frankly terribly unappealing to look at.

There are a few saving graces and indulgences within those drab surroundings – his stash of vests and bowties, a modest collection of leather cuffs, the vintage Gibson Sunburst mounted on the wall next to his bed, his ‘69 Camaro that he bought through an anonymous seller (much to the displeasure of his firm’s top brass).

Most importantly is the massive blanket fort that covers half of the compact living room. The back of the L-shaped couch frames the foot of an air mattress in the corner, sheets clipped securely into the back of the seat and pulled taut in a slope against the wall. Phichit supplied the Pac-Man fairy lights from his store and they’re strung on the inside, a menagerie of retro hues that give light to a dozen pillows and cushions, a few of his favorite books and the Switch that he wishes he had more time to use. It’s a portal to anywhere, a dream that whisks him away whenever he fancies; he might not be a madman with a box, but within his fort, he is the master of his own existence, the narrator of adventures through space and time.

Victor isn’t a madman but judging from the small but unmistakable Tardis tucked away between rose petals on his forearm, Yuuri can only imagine the layers of charm waiting under Victor’s generally calm exterior. Outside of that sweet blush, Victor has proven to be more suave that the perfect strum of a guitar; and, as Yuuri walks into the speakeasy and leaves the world behind, he wonders what it was about _him_ that made Victor abandon all professional reason to invite him into such a clandestine location.

It’s been a few months since Yuuri has enjoyed the wistful elegance of a speakeasy. The city is littered with tributes to that bygone era, undisclosed entryways and obscure passwords leading to pleasant nights that hastened patrons back to the roaring twenties. Yuuri loves the mystery, a hidden point in an open world; they’re unquestionably more worthwhile than the mainstream bars catering to people’s mass inclinations, _Giacometti’s_ being the only exception to that derision. His current watering hole is...acceptable, a reason to leave his apartment after a long week at the office and nothing else. Yuuri would be a liar if he says he hasn’t been on the hunt for something _more_.

The institution that Victor guides him into fills Yuuri with a sense of wonder and kismet. Yuuri steps into a spacious lounge that’s an impressive spread of leather furnishings, wooden barrels, feathered appointments, and a sprawling bar that stocks bottles of all shapes, sizes, and tints three shelves high. The countertop is wrapped in muted lighting, a soothing play on the varnished wood panels; the bar’s brickwork is much the same as the bookstore, brushed in a lovely array of shadows from the mellow twinkle of the chandelier above them.

The walls are dotted with what look to be framed paintings and photographs, but after a closer and more concentrated squint, they transition into a new piece, proving the frames to actually be cleverly concealed screens. Where they aren’t covered, the walls parallel to the seats are lined in patterned red velvet, an intoxicating contrast to the other fortifications. Low period music fills the room, gentle and romantic instrumental that leaves Yuuri swaying on his feet; there’s a smoky perfume about the place, exuded from the wood and hide in a heady invitation to sit back and relax.

Yuuri is _so fucking happy_ that he got out of his car.

The room is deserted and given that the bar stools are stacked along the counter and there are sealed boxes from the courier sitting at various angles on the ground, Yuuri assumes that they’re closed for the evening. His heart flutters at the thought; he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to wear his plastic smile, but what exactly has Victor done to the rulebook to have him in here?

“Victor, this is incredible,” Yuuri whispers, running a hand over the closest seat, deep brown leather that greets his palm with coarse authenticity. “I had no idea this place was even here.”

“I’m not surprised. We’re a membership club, so our notoriety is strictly word-of-mouth. New members are only admitted at the end of each quarter, and they are recommended directly to us by current clientele. There’s a whole treasure hunt of sorts that they have to complete before they’re given the password.”

Victor turns over one of the stools, setting it down and sliding onto it, propping a leg on the footrest. He’s effortlessly attractive with his lithe posture and dazzling eyes under the lights. “The owner is _very_ particular about maintaining the atmosphere and we’ve built a reputation on providing a one of a kind experience. No one has ever complained about having to jump through hoops to be here and if they did, well, this isn’t the bar for them.”

There’s Victor’s roguishness again, and Yuuri is ninety-nine percent sure that Victor is the one crafting those hoops. “What was your right of passage into the bar?”

“Me?” Victor rubs a hand at his nape with a lopsided grin, “Oh, I was wasted outside of one of the secret entrances on O’Farrell Street, which I didn’t know at the time, of course. I managed to sing the right password, which apparently impressed the owner enough that they let me in. I’m still not sure how I got behind the bar but after I sobered up they told me that patrons were quietly going crazy for my West Hollywood cocktail. The owner offered me a job; said they would work with whatever schedule was convenient to me and the rest is history. Bartending here was always the highlight of my week. It’s like being surrounded by a very diverse and entertaining family.”

Yuuri nestles himself on the chesterfield opposite Victor, stretching cat-like against the upholstery, “I get the feeling you’re more than moonlighting.”

“Ah, ah,” Victor wags a finger and smiles handsomely, “Equivalent exchange, remember? I want to hear more good things about you, Yuuri.”

 _There’s not much to tell,_ Yuuri’s brain drawls, words marching to his mouth in an attempt to deflect Victor’s interest. His heart isn’t having it, sending a shockwave of warmth through him and with it, a more positive outlook of himself; he thinks back to dinner, and to Victor talking about his Poodle, smile shy as an answer comes to him.

“I volunteer at the Best Friends Animal Society,” Yuuri says, picking idly at his cuticles, “My building doesn’t allow animals which is why I never could adopt the gorgeous toy poodle they have. She has a small chomp on her right ear but they’re not sure how it happened since they found her that way. I would visit on weekends, on the way to or from the grocery, just to say hi and it...became a thing.”

Victor is positively beaming with that little morsel, “And you say I’m the adorable one.” Yuuri takes his glasses off, pretends to be rubbing his eyes except he’s really trying to erase the blush seeping into his cheeks; Victor continues, a light giggle in the undertones, “And you’re right, I moonlight as a lawyer not a bartender.”

“Hmm?”

“I co-own the speakeasy,” Victor says simply, gesturing around him, “and _The First Step_ , which I run myself a few days a week when I’m not needed in some client meeting or the other.”

A frivolous “Huh” is all the feedback Yuuri can muster for Victor’s continued wreckage of the status quo. Perhaps it’s Yuuri’s own conditioning within the corporate world that makes his brain throw up a massive ‘STOP’ sign every time Victor suggests a life beyond it. It’s arrogant to imagine that bartending was another temporary endeavor for Victor and Yuuri silently pummels that unconscious bias into the dirt.

“Must be nice being your own boss,” Yuuri glances up at the ceiling, squints at the collage of front-page newspaper articles plastered there; the attention to detail in the speakeasy is simply phenomenal, “The man who runs my firm, I swear to God, he looks like some hybrid of human and Tasmanian devil. It’s kind of terrifying.”

Victor laughs, stool creaking as he tips to one side, “That doesn’t sound like a fun workday, but I have to say, you don’t look like someone who’s easily afraid of anything.”

It’s so difficult to write those opinions off as mere flirting; it’s _definitely_ that, Yuuri isn’t blind to the way Victor keeps looking at him, but there’s something else there, something more than just throwaway affection. They lock eyes, and Yuuri’s heart startles with Victor’s sincerity; he bows his head, feels an itch all over him that he doesn’t know how to scratch.

“That’s...sweet. But considering that you found me on the side of the road crying my eyes out, you don’t need to...” _Patronize me_ , is how Yuuri intended to finish his sentence but he can’t bring himself to, not with how gracious Victor was and is being.  

Victor rests an elbow on his knee, fist propped against his chin; his eyes blink to somewhere behind Yuuri, smile reflective, “You can have one bad day or a hundred of them, and that still wouldn’t define you any more than my hair or tattoos define me,” he shrugs and hops off the stool, hinting to a second door with one hand as he pockets the other.

“C’mon, Yuuri. Let’s get you that drink I promised.”

 

* * *

 

There are a total of four concealed rooms, not including the Main Lounge Yuuri initially stepped into. He loses complete track of the building’s layout the further Victor takes him into the bowels of the speakeasy, enchanted by the abundance of movable bookcases and concealed switches throughout the establishment. It’s an enigma and a masterpiece, outclassed only by Victor himself.

First, there’s The Library, a self-explanatory hubbub that takes the bookstore one step further; rows of liquor, capacious seating and a soft piano melody makes it the perfect adult retreat, according to Victor.

“My first time bartending here was behind that counter,” Victor nods fondly at the far end of The Library, “Other than the main entrance, this is the only room accessible from the street, so customers usually stop by when they’re looking for a quick drink...or when they want to avoid Yakov.” He winked mischievously, a knowing smile on his face that assured Yuuri he was far from being the only only person Yakov had ever scowled at.

Russell’s Room is an extension of The Library and carries a lavish collection of premium cigars. Victor goes about explaining the composition of the walk-in humidor — from the large rooftop fresh-air units and environment air-scrubbers, to the elaborate temperature control system. They have a collection of fine tobacco from around the world, and Yuuri breathes in the lush mix of cedar and cigar notes that he can’t begin to individually grasp. He watches Victor instead and lets his voice carve through the tense rubble still bunched in his chest. The more Yuuri sees and hears, the less potent his anxiousness becomes, and he knows Victor understands because he hasn’t called ‘equivalent exchange’ since his comment about Yuuri’s fearlessness.  

The most intriguing secret is The Ipswitch. It’s the core of the speakeasy, cloaked by an actual trap door, and easily the most luxurious section of them all. Yuuri descends first, loving the muted pastels, art deco crystal chandeliers, and even more leather fittings that look three times as comfortable as the ones in the lounge. The bar is smaller, but the bottles are unconventionally colored and much more ornate than the ones upstairs.

“Patrons usually have to discover these places on their own,” Victor explains, “and Ipswitch is _the_ place to be if you’re looking to sample our bottles of rare bourbon, rum and whiskey.”

“I feel kind of dirty, you showing me all these little secrets,” Yuuri admits; Victor doesn’t respond but even the tenebrous tour can’t hide Victor’s blossoming redness. _He’s gorgeous_ , Yuuri muses for the thousandth time as they stroll up the stairs and Victor avails him of story after story from his nights at the speakeasy.

There’s Mila and Sara, two of the most notorious mixologists in the country (so it’s rumored), both of whom do the daily grind as an architect and curator respectively. JJ, the exuberant speech writer, is a purveyor of the finest, though not entirely legal, libations which no one (except Yakov, apparently) dares question. Georgi, whose dishes are to die for, is a celebrated makeup artist by day and savors the same vibrant use of color in his cooking.

“You’ve actually met our other chef,” Victor says with a chuckle. “It’s Yuri, Nikolai’s grandson. The moment he turned eighteen he started coming down here, showing off some of his own creations, demanding a job. It’s basically an extension of Nikolai’s place upstairs, except Yuri’s food is this crazy fusion that can pair to anyone’s tastes. I’d bet top dollar he’s already got something else in mind for you.” He bites his lip, further accenting the blush on his cheeks. “I hope he didn’t upset you. I don’t exactly bring people around the restaurant, much less here, so he was a little curious.”

He offers Yuuri a sweet smile, glancing at him through his lashes; maybe he’s preparing for Yuuri to ask why, which is undoubtedly the elephant in the room. But, for once in his life, Yuuri doesn’t quite care for the answer.

“Typical teenager,” Yuuri says with a casual shrug and a soft smile that he hopes properly conveys ease. Normally, he might feel skittish in this situation, but with Viktor by his side, he just can’t find it in himself to rise to the bait his anxiety is leaving out throughout his mind. “Now, about that drink…”

They rendezvous in a room that resembles a private detective agency; the faux windows announce _Wilson and Wilson,_ and there’s a mechanism in place that moves individual silhouettes across the fogged glass every minute or two. As he moves behind the bar, Victor explains that the owner has a deep love of the golden age of detective fiction, hence this recent addition.

“This is the last room, for now, and it’s the only part of the speakeasy where you can order full meals. The three other rooms all carry different drinks and depending on the bartender and the night, there are special, off-the-menu selections that must be ordered by the correct name. Even then, you still might not get them if the bartender doesn’t know you.

“It’s the same with Yuri, ordering from his kitchen requires that you gather information on his personal list,” Victor places a beautifully typewritten menu in the form of a dossier in front of him, a fun and fitting detail that makes Yuuri smile; the ‘Bootlegger Pizza’ catches his eye and he tentatively resolves to try it if he is ever invited back to this incredible place.

“Consider me your personal bartender for the evening - what would you like, Yuuri?”

“Hmm…” Yuuri glances again at the menu which contains a list of unusual cocktails, along with several classics. He follows the choices to the fine-print prompt - _Ask your bartender for more recommendations!_ \- and it leads him to believe that the menu, as thick as it is, is far from complete.

“Well, I’ve heard your West Hollywood cocktail is practically famous. One of those, please, thank–”

He groans on hearing his phone ring, fishing it out of his pocket with a gritted curse. It’s the office because of-fucking-course it is. But just as he’s about to answer the call, Victor plucks the device from his hand with a raised eyebrow, nodding to something behind Yuuri; he turns to see the framed House Rules, the second line declaring ‘No Cell Phone Use’. A light switch goes off in Yuuri’s mind; he forgot that most speakeasies carry that guideline, among others, and God, it’s one rule he’s happy to follow. The ringtone cuts when Victor presses and holds the power button and Yuuri laughs, taking the phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

“Strike one, Yuuri,” Victor says, tongue wetting his bottom lip in what should be a customary way, a passing cloud of a motion. But his smile is becoming more electric, crackling, coming for the iron in Yuuri’s veins. Yuuri still doesn’t understand it, still thinks that Victor is mistaken in some way or the other but _goddamn_ if he’s not enjoying this evening. He lets that feeling, the continued bursts of freedom in this serendipitous exchange fuel his answer.

“What happens when I reach strike three, Detective?”

Victor smirks, “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” He pauses and lets the silence just hold for a long moment, it’s very existence charging the air that surrounds them. “One West Hollywood coming right up.”

He disappears through a nondescript door behind him, ducking low to accommodate his height, and Yuuri listens to the clanks and clatters from his perch on a high stool. Victor returns with an armful of unmarked glass bottles and a copper mug, and as Yuuri opens his mouth to question the contents of the cocktail, Victor’s entire demeanor changes.

He _moves_. It’s as though Yuuri is watching a dance, yet Victor’s partner is the accoutrements in front of him. A bottle is twirled in one hand while he rims the glass in sugar, then he’s turning on his heel, tossing a few solid fruits and some liquids into the blender, all without the assistance of a jigger. Yuuri follows his sway, drinks in his humming, feels the last dregs of his tension fall under with every fluid tilt of Victor’s hips; it’s as if this is a dance for Yuuri’s eyes only, one whose purpose is more than simply pouring a drink.

Victor pauses on one particular bottle, looking to Yuuri for guidance, “How strong would you like it?”

Yuuri smiles. Drive home be damned at this point; he’ll sleep in his car if it comes to that. He quirks an eyebrow, lets his expression light a sparkle in Victor’s own before he puts a hand over his glasses.

“Surprise me.”

Victor chuckle is interspersed with the slosh some liquid or the other, “That feels like a challenge.”

“How so?”

“Well...you’re the one who keeps surprising me,” Victor says vaguely. The blender roars to life, quick explosions of Victor’s mystery drink that come together in under fifteen seconds. Yuuri uncovers his eyes to see a heavy slush of neon green going into the mug; Victor arranges a garnish of cherries and mint, balancing the large toothpick along the top. He presents his creation to Yuuri with a wink, taking a deep bow that swoops his hair, silver and pink shimmering even in the low light.

"The menu says West Hollywood, but I also like to call this the Keep it Secret, Keep it Safe."

Yuuri laughs at the familiar quote, reaching for the handle of the mug, fingertips just brushing over Victor's knuckles. The moment slows, a breath held in limbo as Yuuri glances up to find wide open blue and a smile to match, an expression Victor casts down in an unintelligible murmur, hand moving so Yuuri can get a better grip. It's ink on parchment, this time he has with Victor; it spreads and seeps and randomizes patterns, but it's beautiful all the same. _Spontaneity has that effect_ , Yuuri decides, taking a long sip of his drink. Sweet ice hits his tongue and, as he crunches and slurps, a bit of spice sparks hot on the roof of his mouth; Yuuri’s eyes widen at the sudden kick, and he blinks, awestruck, at a grinning Victor.

“That never gets old,” he laughs, “Do you like it?”

“ _Love_. This is so fucking good, Victor! I’m guessing you can’t tell me what’s in it?”

Victor shrugs, pointing to the row of unlabeled bottles, “Damned if I know.” Yuuri giggles, drinking a little faster as Victor continues, “What I can tell you is that my cocktail is eerily similar to one that was served here back in the day.”

“Wait, does that mean...”

"Yup! This used to be the location of an actual speakeasy in the twenties. Very popular and renowned for being so well hidden that people spent months believing that what’s now The Library was the only bar in the place. Everything is pretty much a mirror of what it was except for this room."

“So, how do Nikolai and Yakov fit into this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well, they and the owner are all long-time friends. When you ask Nikolai about his history, he gives a different answer each time. When you ask Yakov, he whacks you over the head with a book,” Victor smiles, “Being around here fits both their personalities because the owner pretty much gives us all a wide berth to do what we do best. Greatest boss ever, if you ask me."

"Aren't you a percentage of a boss too?'

"Me? Yeah but no. Too stuffy for my liking. I leave the books to them and they leave me in peace to run this speakeasy."

Something clicks with Yuuri. " _This_ speakeasy?"

Victor loops his thumbs behind his suspenders and strikes a pose, not saying anything as he tips back and forth on his boots. Yuuri shakes his head, swirling the settled liquid in his mug and taking another prolonged swig, lips curling as he gets another rush of chill and warmth. His eyes rove over Victor’s arm, and he doesn’t stow away his fascination with the continuous lines, interlacing symbols, flowers, and medley of references; he’s staring and it’s only when Victor lets his left-hand rest on the bar, bringing his arm closer to him that Yuuri realizes just how much he was fixated on it.

“I started getting them the day that I left the firm,” Victor says, “I have a friend, he’s a bartender as well and he used to be a graphic designer. He did a full sketch for me based on all the things that are important to me,” he pats a covered area of his upper arm, “It started with Makkachin, because she’s my best girl and it was all down-arm from there.”

"You have a full sleeve?" Yuuri shifts in the chair; if ever there was a heat-seeking missile of a comment for him, that was it.

"I do," Victors studies his arm, smile cheerful if a little devious. "It’s my version of ‘fuck off’ to people’s expectations. Go big or go home, right?”

“That’s one way of doing it.”

“Did I mention that I hate needles?”

Yuuri laughs, tone softening as he points to the cherry blossoms on Victor’s wrist, "Those are very beautiful. They remind me of my grandparents’ onsen in Japan.”

"I've been to an onsen!" Victor claps his hands excitedly, "I went to Tokyo a few years back, just to get away for a few days, and I tried one of the bath houses. I swear I haven’t been satisfied with normal baths since. The bathtub in my apartment is really fucking small.”

The image of Victor in an onsen, much less an unsuitably sized tub, has Yuuri chugging the rest of his drink in what has to be a sideline of speakeasy etiquette. When he all but slams the mug onto the counter and looks up at Victor, he sees a sweeping blush and a mischievous glint that once again puts them on the same page.

“Would you like another one?”

Yuuri needs to give his mind something to do other than entertaining his current slew of lewd thoughts, so he says, “Actually, do you mind if I mix you something?”

Victor raises an eyebrow, “What other hobbies do you have up your sleeve, Mister Accountant?”

“I picked up a few things from...another life,” Yuuri walks to the edge of the counter and Victor meets him in the middle, “Just enough to make use of the fancy glasses in my apartment.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Victor moves to sit, shoulder nudging Yuuri’s own as he passes; the trace of his cologne goes straight for Yuuri’s dick, “Everything’s right behind you and yes, we have properly labeled bottles on the top shelf.”

Yuuri ambles into the room, veering left to find himself surrounded by paraphernalia fit for ten bars. _How big is this place?_ He props himself against the rolling ladder and stares up at the shelf opposite, unmoving for one beat. Two. Three. And then, he gives in, stooping slow and wobbly as he takes a few very deep breaths. They’re nothing like the ones he took in his car, no exhaustion in the exhales to flay him. But something whips in his chest, and every inhale adds to the volatility. It’s... _refreshing_. Everything about the evening is.

And Victor... _oh_ , he’s a dream. Yuuri can’t find any other way to describe him because no man could be that beautiful, inside and out; lawyer and bartender and God knows what else, mixing carouse and care the way a sorcerer might blend spells. It’s so easy to get caught up in the magic of all this, the world literally sitting in a bookshop, doubly so when it comes to Victor Nikiforov. Yuuri pulls at his tie, stretches against the blazer that he should’ve left in the car, lets the rapid _boom!_ of his heartbeat chase away the echo of ‘This is too much, Yuuri. You’re a ticking bomb’. And isn’t that a terrible thing to be told? Terrible and true. Yuuri has spent so much of his life holding both the red and blue wires, tiptoeing around himself so that he doesn’t disrupt his life any more than it already is.

But the past doesn’t belong in this speakeasy. Victor stepped into his world, wading through the sludge to offer him a bottle of water and a smile that made Yuuri feel he could hang the stars. Yuuri no longer has the detonator because Victor _is_ the detonator.

He has to wonder what it will take to bring his counter to zero.

With one more long breath, his entire being settles into place and he gets to work, collecting bottles and barware like some sort of fetch quest, trundling it all back to the bar, and to Viktor. His bartender-turned-patron gazes at his expectantly, cheeks cushioned in his palms, and Yuuri smiles easily, laying out his spoils on the bar top and getting right to work. There’s a choppy jig to his movements, which is understandable since Yuuri is accustomed to doing this in his own kitchen and certainly not for an audience. But his hands don’t fail him, and neither does Victor’s appreciative laugh or the way he ruffles his hair, pink like waves between his fingers. Soon, Yuuri presents his own creation, a drink of ombre blue, much like a mermaid’s tail; it’s embellished with what resembles a coconut tree and one of the rosy umbrellas he pilfered from the selection he found on the counter.     

“What am I having tonight, Yuuri?” Victor circles the rim with a single fingertip, brings some stray drops to his lips, “Oh, that’s _good_.”

“Fuck Me.”

“What?”

“The name of the drink, it’s a Fuck Me.”

Victor inhales, rough and contemplative, “Why do I get the feeling you’re making this up as you go?”

Yuuri shrugs coyly. “I’m just doing what my bartender ordered, you know, when he sat in my car, invited me to dinner, and brought me into his super secret speakeasy.”

Viktor blinks for one long second before a slow giggle slips from his lips. “You’re a fast learner. I like that.”

“I aim to please.” Yuuri smiles as Victor drinks, neither of them bothering to tame their eye contact. He feels as if they’ve both stepped through the looking glass; Yuuri might not be the lawyer in the room, but he’s entirely sure that neither of them has any interest in leaving Wonderland.

 

* * *

 

The night progresses with the kind of inevitability that Yuuri could never have anticipated all those hours ago, alone in his car. One drink turns into two, two turns into three, and by drink number four, they’ve all but lost count of whose turn it is to step behind the bar. Personal space becomes a vague concept for both of them, not that Yuuri is complaining. He refills Victor’s glass, slides it all of a few inches to his right where Victor began standing a couple of drinks ago; Victor’s cheeks are sweet cherries, gaze bright and lively as he bumps gently into Yuuri, chortles echoing through the faux detective agency.

“C’mon,” Victor offers his hand, drink balanced in the other. “The Ipswitch is by far the most cozy part of the speakeasy and I think we’re going to need a good seat if we continue making drinks for each other.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get me alone,” Yuuri muses, pressing into Victor’s side and lacing their fingers together. Whatever clever response Victor has fades as he surveys their new proximity, smile as warm as his skin and the alcohol dancing in both their veins.

It’s a comedy of errors as they laugh their way down the steps under the trapdoor, Victor doing his damndest to protect his drink – “It’s against the rules to spill anything in here!” – and Yuuri not trusting the step treads, making their journey three times as long. Soon, they’re on level ground and they’ve curled themselves together on a squishy oversized armchair, playing a extempore game of Never Have I Ever.

It’s as if nothing outside of Victor and this speakeasy mattered before. The passage of time is all but moot in this is their hidden corner of the world, as long as no one comes to remind them of things like jobs or obligations. Victor’s focus on him is unwavering and heady, twirling Yuuri’s insides around until up is down, left is right, and anxiety and self-doubt are nowhere to be found.

“This tie is hideous,” Victor teases, tugging at Yuuri’s already loosened tie and freeing it from his neck, “Which is a shame because the suit is gorgeous.”

“The tie I agree with but I’m really not a fan of this jacket either. I’m not a fan of any of my suits,” Yuuri pouts at the abundance of fabric that, under Victor’s bold hands, feel like far too much clothes to have on. “College was a breath of fresh air when it came to dressing down, but then I go and get a job and it’s like wearing a fucking uniform all over again.”

“Tell me about ‘College Yuuri’ – what would he wear now if he could?” Victor asks, fingers strumming at his own suspenders almost as if they were hair to twist around his fingers.

“Vests instead of jackets, some glorious bowties, and some different shoes. Definitely some different shoes.” He takes the tie from Victor and chucks it across the room, hoping with the fierceness of the somewhat intoxicated that it falls into some long-lost dungeon where ugly blue ties go to die.

Victor whistles in approval, setting down his drink so he can stretch both hands to collect Yuuri’s jacket, the bulk of which get stuck at his elbows; Victor snorts, pushing it the rest of the way and onto the floor. He unclips Yuuri’s cufflinks, sets them down on the small side table next to the chair and rolls his sleeves up, folding neat and practiced pleats. His face splits into a wide grin when he spots the accessory on Yuuri’s wrist.

“Oh, your cuff is delicious! It suits you, Yuuri!”

Yuuri, tongue tied by the slow spark of Victor’s touch, adjusts his cuff with a steadying breath, “Thanks. I love the way leather feels against my skin, so I wear one pretty much every day.”

“I used to wear pink suspenders under my jackets at work sometimes.”

Yuuri leans forward, plucks at the one Victor’s wearing now, “Why am I not surprised?”

“It was my silent act of rebellion, but it became more of a burden then a freedom in the end,” Victor is quiet for a moment, looking down to where Yuuri’s fingers are still roving over his suspenders, “It started to feel like this huge weight on my shoulders, reminding me of how I wasn’t actually living my life.”

“So, the drinking and winding up here...?”

Victor nods, rests a hand over Yuuri’s own, holds it close near his heart. Something lingers in his exhale, a harsh recall of lessons learned that stills Yuuri and gives his next words a weight of their own.

“I hate it,” Yuuri whispers, “I hate feeling like I have no control, like no matter what I do, I’ll always be some dime-a-dozen corporate puppet. I hate it so much, Victor.”

“Then change it,” Victor says simply. “Look at your track record from just today; you pulled your car over, had dinner with a complete stranger, and walked into this speakeasy without looking back. I’d say you’ve made up in spades for your daily purgatory spent in the office and traffic. Wearing a bow tie to work can’t be that much harder, can it?”

Yuuri frowns, pensive. “Would it even help? You said your suspenders became too heavy.”

Victor brushes a thumb briefly over Yuuri’s cheek. “You have to start somewhere. So, one red bow tie to match the lining in your cuff. What do you think?”

Yuuri stares at Victor, gets lost in the vibrant blues of his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, “but I’d like to find out.”

Victor smiles, dragging his bottom lip into his mouth, cute and thoughtful. Yuuri waits for him to say whatever is on his mind but Victor seems content to dent his skin with the words, looking at Yuuri as the silence drums around them. The oomph of it is enchanting and Yuuri wonders how crazy it would be to lean forward and catch that same lip between his teeth.  There’s a growing heat between them, that much was undeniable, but even with them still clinging to each other, Yuuri can’t convince himself to close the gap.

“Sing for me?” Victor asks out of the blue, a subtle plea in the undertones.

Yuuri tilts his head, having another sip of Victor’s infamous cocktail as his heart speeds to unravel the sudden appeal. “Huh? Why? I’m not very good.”

Victor shakes his head emphatically, his hands trailing over Yuuri’s forearms. “Please?”

Yuuri’s jaw ascends and descends until he can only sigh, utterly defeated. Victor is demanding, needy, greedy and still altogether perfect. Yuuri wants to spoil him, to see that cute smile spread over his face, to hear what other sounds would come out of his mouth…

“Alright,” he says, “but I don’t have any music.”

“You don’t need any!” Victor coos, hearts in his eyes as he seems to scramble impossibly closer. Their legs are tangled up on the cushion of the chair now, shoes long deposited somewhere on the floor; it gives Yuuri the perfect view of Victor’s pink and blue socks, glittery things that perfectly match his hair and eyes. Yuuri looks at them again, and then back at an exuberant Victor; how is he supposed to refuse when Victor’s eyes are petitioning him so earnestly? How can he say no when Victor’s fingers are brushing the skin under Yuuri’s cuff in an entirely unfair way?

Yuuri’s nerves flare and he gnaws at his lip; he feels Victor’s fingers tighten ever so gently on his wrists, the simple action cutting through the invisible binds that have encircled his chest better than any knife. He hears himself whisper “Okay”, clearing his throat as he moves from the seat and walks to the edge of the bar, leaning supportively against the expensive wood. Victor’s mouth is an instant ‘O’ of thrill when he brings the soft hum of Coldplay to life, and Yuuri delights in the way Viktor inclines himself almost all the way off of the couch, eyes fluttering when he hears the line “I want something just like this.” He tries not to overthink the situation, or why he chose this song. All Yuuri knows is that he wants to dance with Viktor, sing with him at Giacometti’s, and just be _free_ ; so for one moment, he lets himself do as he wants.

He closes his eyes, feels his heartbeat sync with the music, and he reaches behind to grip the edge of the bar, nerves and courage coming together in a few missed notes and garbled words. Somewhere along the way, his voice smooths, and he forgets to breathe when he hears the unmistakable stride of combat boots; Victor inches closer and closer to him, fingertips, suddenly trailing down his arm and there’s warm breath against his cheek and…

Yuuri blinks in surprise, gaping as Victor’s lips brush against his, kiss soft and reverent and everything Yuuri dreamed it could be since he mixed Victor that first drink. He’s never been so happy that he sung, that he accepted this beautiful man’s request and left the world behind for a few hours. His hands move on their own, eyes fluttering closed as he cups Victor’s face and presses them flush, earning him a muted gasp tinged in desperation and sure arms pulling him impossibly close. Yuuri isn’t sure who’s shivering more, or whose heart pounds harder, or how far out of the Ipswitch their budding groans might carry — and he doesn’t care, not with Victor sliding a leg between his own, hands dipping low to his ass, mouth parting for Yuuri’s tongue. Victor _squeezes_ , and Yuuri smiles longingly into the kiss; he licks an even stripe along Victor’s bottom lip before taking it between his teeth, sucking slow and indulgent until it’s ripe and rubescent and has Victor writhing in his arms.

“Can I…” Victor half-whispers, half-moans, and Yuuri hears the telltale clink of his belt buckle, nails digging into the counter when Victor moves to palm his half-hard cock through his pants.

“Yes. Yes. _Anything_ ,” Yuuri breathes and he’s caught in another explosive kiss as hands fly to his waist. His belt slides from the loops in a harsh swish, discarded somewhere over Victor’s shoulder; Victor pops the lone button, zips him open, and drags both his pants and boxers down, his knees hitting the wood floor with a thump that Yuuri knows will cause more than a passing ache. But Victor is unsympathetic to that predicament; he pushes Yuuri’s shirt up his torso, lips grazing the delicate slope of his dick, skin wet with saliva and precum, and pulsing with every insatiable sigh that falls from Victor’s mouth.    

Yuuri bucks forward, but is driven back by Victor’s hold on his body, "Don’t tease me, _please,_ " he looks down, finds an abyss of want ringed in ocean blue; Yuuri runs a quaking hand through Viktor’s hair, tugging roughly at his locks when Victor gazes right back, teeth scraping promises against the fat head of his now flushed and aching erection, “V-Victor- _fuck!_ ”

Fingers meander to his balls, and what was the nascent heat of Victor’s tongue and throat, all of it hovering just barely out of reach, becomes a messy swallow, mouth working around his cock with a fervor that leaves little to Yuuri’s imagination. It’s not exploratory or bashful; it’s unadulterated greed the way Victor hollows his cheeks and takes more of him in, nose soon buried in Yuuri’s neatly groomed pubic hair as the flat of his tongue traces the throbbing vein on the underside of his dick. Yuuri bites curses into his cheek, hands tangled in pink and silver, the sight of Victor on his knees seeking every one of his weak spots shaking him apart like nothing else ever has.

“That feels amazing, you’re so fucking _good_ ,” Yuuri babbles and Victor _preens,_ a filthy hum vibrating along the length of his cock as he gives a particularly rough suck, popping off with a lewd slurp and lick of his lips. Before he can protest, whine thick and edging at the back of his throat, Yuuri is hoisted up and deposited lengthwise on the bartop, keenly chased by a smirking Victor who licks into his mouth, hand wrapping around his sticky cock and stroking, unhurried and utterly maddening.

“I'm not finished with you,” Victor growls, breathless between kisses; his jaw twitches and he smiles, somewhat sheepishly, “but you’re kind of big.”

Yuuri stifles a deep chuckle in another ravenous kiss; he can't remember another time when a partner has been so unbelievably _adorable_ during sex. He locks his legs over Victor’s ass, feels the jut of Victor’s clothed erection against his thigh, hisses around an unholy moan when Victor flicks a thumb over the beading tip of his cock; with his free hand, Victor picks at the buttons of Yuuri’s shirt, loosening the fabric little by little with a playful laugh.

“Everything you’re doing is perfect,” Yuuri tilts his head back, shudders as Victor takes the opportunity to nip at his pulse point, “No complaints here.”

“Well, then,” Victor breaks from Yuuri’s vice grip, swings both Yuuri’s legs over his shoulder, and all at once Yuuri’s cock is again enveloped in velvety heat. Yuuri slumps back against the bar, whimpering in the midst of “More, _more_ ” and “Victor, fuck, _your mouth_ -” and “Don't stop, just like that, _please_ ”. Victor takes him deep, sucks with abandon, bobs up with an ever-gentle rake of teeth before swallowing him again; there’s a single-minded intensity to his passion, an enthusiastic response to Yuuri’s praise that eclipses all coherent thought.

“Victor, _Victor,_ I'm c-close,” Yuuri pants, frantic as he reaches for Victor, not wanting to surprise him with a mouthful of his release. But Victor surges forward, hands sliding to the globes of Yuuri’s ass to yank him closer; he _hits_ the back of Victor’s throat with the sudden jostle and Yuuri is scorched, fucking up briefly into the tight heat before he comes with a choked sob. It floods Victor’s mouth and he makes a pleased sound, gentle as he pulls off of Yuuri and swallows. Yuuri braces on his elbows, trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, more so when Victor bends once more to kiss the tip of his sensitive cock; Victor chews on his lip, staring at Yuuri’s half-mast erection and then at him, eyes glazed over with lust.

"Can I order another one of your drinks?" he murmurs, hot and shameless, “because I want this in me. _Now_.”

 _Fuck yes_ , Yuuri thinks, wishing now more than ever he could apparate, teleport, beam me the-fuck-up Scottie, _anything_ so long as it got him and Viktor to a bed that preferably had a large stock of condoms and lube at the ready. His place would do.

“Come home with me,” Yuuri begs, even though he doesn't have to; Victor’s gaze speaks of nothing but the same impulsive hunger and they meet each other in the middle, kiss crushing and bruising as they piece together the necessary plan.

“Too far,” Victor shakes his head, purring when Yuuri latches on to his collarbone and worries the skin between his teeth.

“Traffic,” Yuuri eases the sharp red rosette with a swipe of his tongue; “should be light.”

“Yuuri, I live three blocks from here and _that’s_ too far,” Victor claws at Yuuri’s biceps when he goes about rousing a second love-bite; Yuuri’s cock twitches and he feels about five seconds from flipping Victor over the bar and fucking him right there.

“Point made. So, where?”

“Here!” Victor gasps, “I need you– _oh_! Come with me!”

Victor pulls himself away, standing shakily. “Hurry," Yuuri recovers the latter half of his clothes before Victor grabs his hand and takes him behind the bar. It’s a bit tricky moving so soon after a truly divine orgasm, but with an impatient tug and an unnoticed stumble he’s at Viktor’s side. He’s about to question the urgency at what looks to be a dead end when Victor yanks on a small handle hidden among the bottles, opening yet _another_ hidden passage.

“Staff only,” Victor explains shortly. They’re surrounded by boxes on one side, and kegs on the other. Victor leads them quickly down a dark hall, past dozens of tapped kegs, their rubber hoses connecting into the wall in a complicated maze of tubing. Victor ignores it all, only pausing when he reaches a locked door; he digs out a small set of keys, turns the knob, and wrenches open the entry, both of them practically falling through it before Victor locks the door behind them.

Yuuri thought it would be some sort of storage room, but instead it’s a rather small and homey bedroom, complete with fluffed carpeting and an entirely comfortable looking Queen-sized bed.

“The owner got sick of coming in and finding me asleep on the couch upstairs, so they made this room for me. I can be a workaholic sometimes,” Victor says with a blush, guiding Yuuri towards the bed, Yuuri's pants and boxers once again abandoned at their feet. He bites his lip again, and this time Yuuri greedily rushes forward, sucking the cherry red flesh into his mouth, loving the way Victor whimpers and erases any space left between them.

“Fuck me, _please_ , Yuuri!”

"You took your time at the bar. It's my turn."

"I won't last," Victor breathes as Yuuri's hand sweeps along his waist. "You have no idea what you've done to me."

“Funny,” Yuuri teases, pushing Victor back against the bed, hands roaming progressively lower and lower, “who knew you were the needy type.”

Victor flushes dark and demanding, and it makes Yuuri want to tease even more of these adorable reactions out of him.

“Well, the good news is,” Yuuri whispers, lips flitting close to Victor’s ear, his touch dangerously close to Victor’s straining erection; “I’m a workaholic too, and I plan to _work_ all night tonight.” He kisses the corner of Victor’s mouth, “Are you ready, Victor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Speakeasy everyone! This chapter was an absolute blast to write, in part because there's something really magical about this fic, and also cause writing as a pair is a blast.  We hope you're having as much fun as we are. :)
> 
> First things first, some [awesome art drawn for this fic by Clarinda](http://megsotaku.tumblr.com/post/170785206086/are-you-by-clarinda-another-fic-inspiration)! We are so blessed by this pink-haired Viktor! [prayer hands emoji] 
> 
> Music in this chapter (which we are both obsessed with): [Coldplay/The Chainsmokers - Something Just Like This](https://youtu.be/FM7MFYoylVs) 
> 
> Chapter 3 is already well underway (the benefits of having extra hands!), so hopefully none of you will need to wait too terribly long for it. :) Thanks for reading! You can hit us up on the social medias - links below! Kudos, Comments, Shares, pink-haired Vitya's, and all forms of appreciation are loved and give us life! And if you're new to either of our work, you should check out our other fics! Thanks again and see you next time!


	3. What’s the Story, Morning Glory?

Years of waking up at the ungodly hour of four a.m. to brave the morning rush hour and hopefully get to work on time has slowly ingrained itself into Yuuri’s existence; so much so that when his eyes pop open the next morning without the aid of any sort of alarm, he isn’t surprised. He exhales into the darkness, rubbing belligerent fingers against the bridge of his nose, mind already deep in the mineshaft of his day and that ungodly nine a.m. meeting. Yuuri can only huff in preparation for the paperwork that’s sure to bury him before lunch. He sighs as thoughts play a light game of ping pong in his head; it’s a side-effect of being mildly hungover, though he doesn’t have much of an explanation for that, or the muscles in his ass and thighs being so sore, or the arm swung languidly around his waist, fingers skimming the beginnings of his morning wood–

_Victor._

Yuuri blinks down at said arm, eyes adjusting to the stretch of color and characters securely tucked into the curves of Yuuri’s bare skin. Soft lips breathe warmth along the fine hairs on his neck, and usher in a few blaring snores that have Yuuri giggling into his hands, the happiness like a broken dam as the night comes back to him.  

Against all odds, every notion of work retreats in the time it takes for him to switch positions; Yuuri faces a slumbering Victor, his coif of silver and pink hair rumpled along the pillowcase. They’re tangled together underneath a thick heap of blankets, and Victor inclines himself closer, a subconscious pull that has Yuuri sighing into his own pillow and longing to stay there for the rest of the day.

There weren’t many nights that Yuuri would dare to catalogue as ‘perfect’. He’s become so used to a certain level of mediocrity being the norm in his life that something as simple as chili fries from The Hat and perusing Netflix with Phichit counted as wins. Those quiet nights in were undeniably better than his last few dates. And the previous night, well, it set a benchmark that Yuuri is sure can never be replicated by anyone or anything. It might not have been a typical date, it might not have been a date at all, but considering that he’s never even had a third date that compares to his night with Victor, it’s no wonder why the majority of his flings in the past few years have best been counted in hours rather than days.

Victor murmurs, sweet and indistinct, nuzzling Yuuri’s nose with his own as he cuddles closer, pinning Yuuri’s dick between their stomachs. Yuuri draws a hacked breath, shutting his eyes for a moment to regain his composure, ignoring the insistent part of himself clamoring to _do_ something about it.

In any other setting and with any other person, the wall would’ve closed in on him, anxiety like spikes protruding from the concrete. But not only has Yuuri had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, he finds himself sliding a graceful hand over the meat of Victor’s ass, fingertip pacing gently on his rim. _More_ , his heart purrs and Yuuri wants to give in, having not had his fill of this man, physically and otherwise. The peace of just laying there wars with the slick friction against Victor’s abs and that damn responsible part of his brain that is tapping its finger against the face of its watch.

“ _Yuuri…_ ” Victor arches unconsciously into the touch, face eclipsed in a blush that quickly spreads to the rest of him as Yuuri circles the puckered and yielding skin. They’re both relatively clean given that Yuuri discovered a well-equipped bathroom through an adjoining door that’s framed with multiple murals, and he made a mental note then to ask Victor if he painted them. That he couldn’t pose the question last night remains the shot of purest awe to Yuuri’s smitten heart. He emerged from the bathroom with a warm towel only to find Victor curled into a blissful little ball, smile squiggled across his beautiful face; “Cuddle” was the only word Yuuri could discern from the jumble of his whispers, and he quickly eased the worst of their escapade from their bodies before crawling back into bed and giving Victor exactly what he wanted.

Yuuri holds him closer still, continuing his early morning exploration pass the cleft of Victor’s ass and up to the small of back, scaling the knots in his spine until he veers right onto Victor’s shoulder and his tatted arm. He had plenty of time to study it while he was draped over Victor’s back, cock teasing his entrance countless times during the night. His arm is a flourishing garden, with Makkachin front and center, ears tipped up as she looks out happily at the view. Flowers spring from her feet, swirling over Victor’s arm with a plethora of secrets hidden in their petals. A Star Wars Rebel symbol formed from stems, a burned out Deathly Hallows in a sunflower, and even a Golden Compass with its unusual collection of symbols around the edges peeking out from under a loop of orchids. Yuuri traces them to the crook in Victor’s elbow, memorizing the vibrance all over again.

_It was probably just a one-night stand for him._

Yuuri squirms momentarily; he has to give the voice in his head credit, that was a nice try; but he's too busy thinking about calling in sick and enjoying a lazy morning with Victor to give his cursed brain more than a passing shrug. Last night was special. Period. This is different, _Victor_ is different. Overlooking that is as impossible as ever finding the speakeasy without some sort of guide.

Unfortunately, he can’t overlook his meeting and he curses into the void that he has to leave this perfectly comfortable bed with his insatiable bunny of a man who sent his world pleasantly off kilter. If the client wasn't Eros Inc., Yuuri would say ‘fuck it’ in a heartbeat; but they’re probably the only reason Yuuri hasn’t already thrown himself into one of the office shredders. They’ve been looking forward to speaking with him for quite some time about their new venture, and postponing at the eleventh hour is something that Yuuri, as much as he wants to, can’t fully justify.

“I wish I could take you with me,” Yuuri whispers, kissing Victor’s temple. Victor doesn't stir any more than before, but the smile that etches along one side of his mouth has Yuuri internally flailing. His lips brush against Victor’s eyelids and cheeks before he finally pulls himself away and stretches. He spends an inordinate amount of time getting dressed, looking over Victor’s sleeping form. What the blankets don’t cover reveals a map of florid bruises; Victor begged for them, came with a pitched shout from the five Yuuri lay on the inside of his thighs, rewarded him with uneven scratches from blade to glutes.

_God,_ Yuuri reaches around to his back, winces when he flicks past a still fresh line of Victor’s passion. He wants more. And not just the sex; he wants to date Victor, to have a picnic with him, go on a late-night run to Menchies, show him his modest blanket fort. He wants Victor to splash paint on the walls of his apartment, landlord be damned. Everything about Victor is so free, and somehow, in his presence, Yuuri’s restraint plays itself. Last night, he caught a glimpse of his best self, as lionhearted as he’s ever been, and he finds himself longing to stay on this side of the fence. The way Victor grabbed life and took what he wanted is admirable, enviable, and while Yuuri doesn’t know if he was bold enough to make such leaps and bounds outside of the speakeasy, just being in Victor’s vicinity makes it much more than a passing consideration.  

_Yes,_ Yuuri reasons, _this is definitely the place to start._

He looks around the room, noting the stock of paint and brushes in the corner, and a small portable drawer but not much else. Yuuri hums, slowly wandering out to the bar, admiring the line of kegs on his way there. As he suspected, there’s a shelf behind the bar, filled with an assortment of business cards, paper scraps, and other odds and ends, but most importantly, pens. With a wide smile, he grabs a napkin from the glass on the bartop and a sparkly blue gel pen and writes down his name and number on the paper, adding a quick heart doodle at the end. Victor should find it here; he’ll leave Victor’s boots and suspenders in front of the counter where he’s sure to pass on his way back into the Ipswitch.

A soft breeze ruffles the hair at the back of his neck and he looks up, noticing the air vents that were currently churning fresh air into the bar. The napkin is sure to flutter away if he leaves it unattended; a cup might work to hold it firm but what if Victor thinks it’s trash?

Yuuri searches around him for some answer, fingers circling his cuff for a few indecisive seconds before it hits him. He bounces on his heel, slipping off the accessory with a fond smile. It’s the perfect solution! Victor loved it and will immediately notice it. Not to mention, Yuuri can get it back later when they meet again. He sets the leather band on top of the napkin, hardly able to contain his thrill about them spending more time together.

Victor is still fast asleep when Yuuri tiptoes into the room. He feels an arousing blush creep over him as he folds Victor’s clothes, piles them at the foot of the bed save for the boots and suspenders, and gathers the rest of his own belongings. Even when he finishes, he continues to stare for several long minutes until his brain reminds him, unhelpfully, of his impending responsibilities.  

Yuuri hovers over Victor, whispering his name as he brushes his knuckles softly against Victor’s cheek. This time, Victor rolls toward him, blinking ever so slightly.

“Yuu-ri,” he mutters sweetly, face smooshing into the pillow. Yuuri chuckles and presses a kiss into his hair.

“I have to go, but I’d like to do this again, take you to dinner, maybe a drink, whatever you’d like. I left my number on the bar.”

“S’kay,” Victor slurs and Yuuri is fairly certain that he’s still mostly asleep; it’s fine though, his cuff will be message enough.

“Call me,” he whispers one last time, lips finding Victor’s own, an easy kiss that earns him contented little sounds that once again has him nearly abandoning all rationale in favor of climbing back into bed and coaxing more of those delightful noises out of this adorable man.

Steeling himself, he steps away, and makes for the nearest exit, which takes him more than a few twists and turns to find. Fortunately, when he finally emerges onto the early dawn-lit streets, it’s to discover that he’s just around the corner from Nikolai’s — he sees the sign to his right, and with a smile, walks towards it, knowing his car is parked just beyond the bend. _The First Step_ soon twinkles above him and he finds his gaze wandering to the rows of shelves within, a magical cupboard that led him to a seemingly days long adventure in the span of only a few hours.

He slides into his car, the classic interior more a portal into bliss rather than the agonizing prison it was the evening before. He runs an affectionate hand over the steering wheel, giving the bookstore and all of its wonderful secrets a last wave before he pulls out into the traffic and heads home.

Realistically, given the hour, he should go straight to the office and freshen up there, but the prospect of greeting his coworkers and Eros Inc. in his sweat and sex scented clothes without a proper shower is unacceptable. Over the course of their pilot project, he built a witty rapport with this client and they were worth the detour to his apartment so he could whip together a more presentable appearance.

It doesn’t really matter that he’ll be late to work, he’ll make the meeting with plenty time to spare - maybe he’ll even stop at Porto’s for a box of cheese rolls on the way. So what if his phone (which he’s yet to turn on) is packed with missed calls and messages? So what if his boss wants him to step in and help on yet another one of _his_ clients that he was perpetually behind on? So what if he didn’t shoot a response to some email or the other at two a.m.? Let the higher ups think him lazy and ‘not a team player’. He’s played the game for years, and if there’s one thing he’s comfortable in, it’s his own skills. If he thinks about it, most of his clients would say the same thing in his favor; management never made Yuuri’s way for him, he did that for himself.

He stubbornly refuses to gives his phone the time of the day; from parking his car in his assigned spot and all the way up the elevator to his apartment, he taps his foot in time to last night’s beat. The feeling overtakes him as he bounces through the door and tosses the device in his docking station on the kitchen counter. It’ll automatically turn on, but Yuuri is well across the space to his bedroom before he can hear the notifications ping.

“Play my morning mix,” he calls to his Google speaker, “and turn the volume to max.”

_Fuck the neighbors,_ he thinks as he builds a breadcrumb trail of clothes, jamming out to his favorite blend of K-Pop that jump starts his day as good as any shot of espresso. His shower is extra-long and pampering, complete with a perfect shave compliments of a choice straight razor. They’re indulgences he usually skips when he’s running late but there’s no place for stress this morning. He owes Victor that, and as odd a thought as that is, Yuuri willing goes wherever it wants to take him.

By the time he steps out of the warm steam, towel slung low around his waist, there’s a sizzle running through his veins, more so when he smiles into the mirror and sees the evidence of his romp with Victor. Whatever his doubts about himself and his life, Victor was attracted enough to him to leave these marks; proof that his memories are just as real as the burn in his thighs. He bites his lip as he washes his face and slicks back his hair. The memory of Victor clenching down on his cock and begging for release has him hardening enough that his towel loosens from its knot; not that it’ll matter if it falls except to deepen the amusing rose scaling the tips of his ears.

He moves into his bedroom with a smile, swaying his hips and singing along to the music as he pulls on fresh underwear and a pair of toffee colored slacks. The pants are passable but he has far less sympathy in him as he swipes through his boring white shirts, dark colored blazers, and ugly neckties. His eyes pan over to his small chest of drawers, mouth curving up as he thinks about the meticulously kept vests and bow ties housed there. As if on cue, one of his favorite songs begins to pound through his speakers and, deciding, he goes for it, bopping over to his fashionable stash and grabbing a light blue shirt, grey vest, and a black, navy and grey plaid bow tie. He dresses carefully, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows and slipping on a black leather cuff similar to the one he left for Victor. After squinting in front of the mirror, he decides to stick with his glasses rather than switch to contacts; he’s always liked his blue frames.

“Naega jeil jal naga,” he sings, tossing his things into a shoulder bag and switching his music to his phone, locking up his apartment before heading to his car. Phichit found a club in Koreatown that they had been meaning to check out when Yuuri isn’t losing his mind; maybe Victor would join him? Then again, it might be hard to coordinate with Victor’s ‘day job’, and he can use some best friend time. He texts Phichit quickly from the driver’s seat, ignoring all his other notifications as he confirms their weekly lunch and pitches the idea of checking out the club soon. He isn’t a good dancer, but it was a long time since he cut loose, and he really wants to right now.

Fuck his life and all the things telling him he couldn’t live it.

He zips across town, taking a few more backstreets then normal so he can stop by the bakery and pick-up a box of treats for his client. Good Cuban pastries beat the garbage his work always caters in any day.

He’s surprised when he pulls up to find himself only thirty minutes late despite all the actual and metaphorical detours he took that morning. There really is no accounting for LA traffic. He tucks in a pair of earbuds and keeps the music flowing as he practically skips into the office. The receptionist’s mouth falls open the moment she sees him and he winks as he pass.

“I’ll sneak you a cheese roll after the meeting,” he promises, earning him a stammered and very much impressed ‘Thanks’ as he heads for his desk.

“Katsuki!” his boss bellows the moment he spots him. “You’re late, and you didn’t answer the phone—”

He cuts off as he takes stock of Yuuri, staring at him bug-eyed and, for once in his life, at a loss for words. Yuuri simply raises an eyebrow, giving precisely zero fucks what his boss thinks about him this morning. “There is nothing in my contract that requires me to answer my personal phone after hours, and I was picking up materials for the meeting this morning.” He motions towards the box.

He boss splutters, vitriol dissolving on his tongue, eyes still roving over Yuuri’s attire; everyone within line of sight has their gaze trained on them, which only increases the difficulty in him grappling with that dissonant crisis. “But we have pastries!”

“From Costco, don’t think I don’t see the receipts.” Yuuri says with an eye roll. He’s always had a soft spot for their muffins, but for a client like Eros Records, they can do better. “And don’t worry, I’ll be expensing this right after I sign them to a multi-year contract today.” Yuuri flashes a toothy smile at his boss which doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s probably a bit more predatory then he intends based on the way the man takes a step back and sighs, evidently resigned.

“At least tell me you brought a blazer.”

“Nope!” Yuuri calls as he sidesteps his boss, laptop under his arm and pastries in the other. “I’ll be setting up in the conference room if you need me.”

* * *

Time sweeps by in a profusion of cheeky winks and the flourish of several important signatures, and four hours later, Phichit is whistling as Yuuri slides into the booth at their favorite deli. He sighs at the sight of their usual order of one pastrami and one corned beef sandwich, and two fresh lemonades, glasses slowly condensing onto the coasters since he’s a few minutes late.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” Yuuri grins, swapping half of each sandwich on their plates, and handing Phichit part of the beef. “God, this smells too good, fuck.”

Phichit gives him a once-over, jaw still unhinged. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me, son! I haven’t seen you in a vest in ages.” Phichit takes a disorderly bite of his lunch as he regains control of his mouth, “Seriously, what brought this on?”

Yuuri tilts his head with a laugh, reaching for his drink with a wide smile. “Can’t a guy stuck in corporate hell start his Friday with a little flair?”

“‘A little flair’, huh?” Phichit slaps a hand over his own neck, flecks of bread scattering on his shoulder. “And that hickey just bit itself into existence, right? C’mon, say it!”

“Fine. I got laid,” Yuuri raises his glass as Phichit grabs his own, both of them beaming in unison as they clink the glassware together.

“Yes! That was my second guess. My first was you burning the accountancy to the ground.”

Yuuri snorts into his lemonade. “I secured Eros Records this morning. I’ve been courting this contract for over a year; it feels so good to have them on my portfolio.”

“Holy shit, we have to celebrate!” Phichit takes a sip and then goes back to his sandwich. “But first things first, tell me about the guy. How did it happen? Where did you meet? On a scale of one to ten–”

“Okay, okay, slow down.” Yuuri devours a piece of the corned beef before he continues. “I was actually having a panic attack when he found me. I took a detour onto Sunset because I couldn’t handle the traffic anymore.”

“Jesus. A bit late, but are you okay? You had me a worried when you didn’t answer my messages last night.”

“Sorry about that,” Yuuri says. “But I promise there’s a good reason for it.” He gives Phichit as brief of an overview as he can, from Nikolai’s to _The First Step_ , and then the magical speakeasy that framed Yuuri’s unforgettable night. His condensed retelling does none of it justice, especially when he recounts the beautiful and extraordinary man whose outward panache and inward kindness swept Yuuri so expeditiously off of his feet. By the end of it, Phichit’s eyes are glossed over like a kid who just found the most coveted candy in the whole store.

“He sounds like a total keeper. And you sound like you have it _bad_.”

“I know and...I kind of do,” Yuuri feels the heat rise in his cheeks, the image of Victor sleeping beside him that morning still fresh in his mind. “I woke up around the time my alarm usually goes off, which turned out to be a blessing for the meeting this morning. He was sleeping and a little hungover but I left a note with my cuff–”

Phichit interrupts him with an inflated gasp. “You gave away one of your leather cuffs? I take it back, you don’t have it bad. You, my friend, are _whipped_.”

Yuuri makes a garbled sound as Phichit waves a hand for him to continue, smile all too devious. “In addition to being a bartender, Victor’s a part-time lawyer in Silverlake. A lawyer who rocks pink hair, suspenders and a full sleeve of tattoos. Fuck, Phichit, the _tats_. They’re amazing.”

Phichit laughs indulgently, well aware of Yuuri’s fetish. “And the sex? Scale of one to ten?”

Yuuri manages to wink before his blush overtakes him, fingers finding the bright rosette on the cusp of his neck. “A hundred.”

Phichit brings his hands together in mock prayer. “Marry him, please and thank you.”

“Enough about me,” Yuuri resumes eating, if only to give his flushed cheeks an excuse to be so red. “What’s been going on with you, Phi? How’s the store doing?”

“Well, I currently have my eye on a beautiful indie drummer who’s been in and out of _Thailand’s Future_ more than a dozen times in the last couple weeks. I’m wondering if I should continue letting him make eyes at me from behind the shelf or if I should pull him into the backroom and show him a really exclusive service.” Phichit waggles an eyebrow as Yuuri chokes on a snicker. “Oh, and I have a new vintage Pac-Man machine that I’m refusing to sell unless I absolutely need to.”

“What?! Can we head over after to see it?”

“What about the office?”

“Well,” Yuuri smirks, “Eros actually rescued me from work. They told my boss that they needed me for the rest of the day to review next quarter’s plans and when we got to the parking garage, they just winked and gave me the address for the bar we’re getting drinks at tonight. I’ll text it to you, if you want to come hang out with us after you close the shop.”

“You’d better!” Phichit agrees. “Drinking on your company’s dime? I’m so down for that.”

“And my boss isn't even invited. They hated him. You should have seen it; they mentioned they couldn’t wait to work with me and he tried to correct them, started to say that he’ll be the one handling their account. They cut him off and said ‘No, we’ll be working with Katsuki. That’s non-negotiable.’”

“Hell yeah!” Phichit cackles. “Your boss is such a prick; it’s about time one of your clients saw through him.”

Yuuri agrees, smiling to himself as he takes a long swig of his lemonade. It was oh so sweet.

* * *

**One week later...**

Yuuri lies in his fort, Switch cushioned on his chest as he stares up at the twinkling fairy lights. Phichit is on his way with burrito bowls and cider from one of the local breweries, and there are drunken brownies in the oven that fills the apartment with chocolatey goodness. From between the sheets, he glances the two garbage bags at the side of the couch; on a bit of a rampage last night, he cleared his wardrobe of anything professionally drab, save for gifts, and hung his vests and bowties instead. He’ll donate it to one of the charities in the area, sure they’ll be put to better use than him glaring resentfully at them.

He should feel more gratified by that list, as well as the fantastic week he’s had working with Eros Records. They want to monopolize him, and with the considerable zeroes in their contract, they’re allowed to do as they like, and by extension, so is Yuuri. For the first time in longer than he can determine, the traffic wasn’t enough to upend his stellar mood.

But that burst of sunlight wanes now. Yuuri sighs, sneaking yet another look at his phone ahead of the timer he set for himself; no new messages, no missed calls, zip. Victor hasn’t called him. Not yet, at least. That’s what Yuuri keeps telling himself as the hours and days go by; it’s slim reassurance, but what else can he do? He’s in no position to judge; it took him much longer to make such calls in past relationships, brief as they were. Victor is allowed to be nervous, and one week really isn’t a long enough time that Yuuri has to start micromanaging his usual pitfalls.

“Something just like this,” Yuuri murmurs to himself, fingers trailing comfort along his lower lip. The buzzer pulls him from his trance and he hurries from the fort to let Phichit in.

* * *

**One month later...**

“Is your friend okay?”

Yuuri mumbles incoherently against the counter while Phichit pats him gently on the back. “Well, Seung-gil, that’s a very complicated question. You want to good news or bad news first?”

“Uh...good?”

“Bold choice. Yuuri–”

“Can never have nice things!” Yuuri pops up from his slumped position to face Phichit’s new friend. Seung-gil, stoic to a fault at any given moment, tosses Yuuri a raised eyebrow and a surprised tousle of his hair.

“That’s not true,” Phichit frowns. “It’s not your fault Victor doesn’t understand what and, more importantly, _who_ he’s passing up.”

“Maybe I gave him a wrong number by accident,” Yuuri rationalizes, dropping his chin into his palms and ignoring his friend. “My sevens always looks like fours.”

Seung-gil shakes his head. “Context, please.”

“In a nutshell, Yuuri went on a date–”

“It was _not_ a date, Phichit.”

“Okay,” Phichit sighs. “Yuuri had dinner with Victor, the guy who apparently stepped in while he was having a panic attack in his car, and then they went to Victor’s bar, had a lovely evening together, fucked, and he hasn’t called.”

“Four weeks, goddamnit!” Yuuri whines, returning to his cocoon.

“Uh huh,” Seung-gil says. “Have you gone back to the bar? That’s the best option–”

“The worse option!” Yuuri simultaneously retorts, again lurching from his position so suddenly that both men jump.

“Why?” Seung-gil shrugs. “You’ll know once and for all, right?”

“Pot.” Phichit grins. “Kettle.”

“I would’ve approached you eventually,” Seung-gil says softly, but he relents as he returns his attention to Yuuri. “Being rejected is the worst case scenario, but the ‘what if’ will haunt you forever. Which one do you think you can live with?”

“I passed Sunset a few times but I can’t just…” Yuuri takes a deep breath, twisting his cuff. “I left my number, the cuff, and some of his clothes on the bar. If he wanted to see me again he should have...would have called. At the very least with the flimsy excuse of giving me back my cuff. I don’t want to be _that_ guy...especially if he doesn’t want to see me again. Do you know how embarrassing it is to show up to someone’s workplace like that? Or have someone show up at _your_ workplace _?_ ”

Seung-gil and Phichit both stare at him with a mixture of skepticism and pity. There isn’t much either of them can say to make him feel better, because the truth is his excuse is just that. It’s a half truth. He _wants_ to be that guy, wants to storm the speakeasy and ask Victor _why_. Did he take pity on Yuuri because he found him crying on the side of the road? If all Victor wanted was a quick fuck, Yuuri wouldn’t have minded; but nothing about that night spelled out one-night stand. Not for Yuuri, and he was sure, not for Victor either.

* * *

**Two months and eight pints of double fudge brownie ice cream later…**

“Whoa,” Phichit says warily, taking what amounts to baby steps into his own dimly lit apartment. Yuuri offers a half-hearted wave with his spoon from the kitchen island, surrounded by bubble wrap and styrofoam from some boxes Phichit had left out. He pokes at the half-devoured tub of ice cream with a weak stab of his plastic utensil, not bothering with words.

“So...we aren’t even bothering with the pints anymore?” Phichit says with a raise of an eyebrow and Yuuri grumbles around another spoonful of cream and sugar; the rapidly melting mess is wedged between his thighs, and with his free hand, Yuuri punches holes in the bubble wrap, filling the room with tiny and somewhat soothing pops.

“The half gallon is cheaper per ounce,” Yuuri says, pensive.

Phichit shuts the door and joins him, fishing a spare spoon from the drawer before he hops onto the counter. “At least upgrade to Pinkberry if you’re going to do this to yourself, and by extension, me.”

“I dreamed about him. Couldn’t get it out of my head all day. I ended up leaving way too early to get here and decided to kill time at the grocery store so I wouldn’t raid your fridge.”

“That’s not really any better.”

Yuuri shrugs, and they eat in silence until Phichit nudges him lightly with his arm.

“Yuuri.”

“Phi.”

“Talk to me.”

“I miss him,” Yuuri whispers with a sniff. “I know that sounds stupid.”

Two months. That’s how long it was since his night with Victor, and the radio silence that followed had turned Yuuri’s emotions inside out. He shivers at the flood of memories, the way Victor looked at him, clung to him. The words they whispered to each other, they’d been so much more than superfluous pillow talk to Yuuri; he doesn’t get into that headspace for just anybody. He isn’t in love, but he knows, in his heart, Victor is someone he _could_ love — Victor is someone he _wants_ to love. If only Victor gave him the opportunity...

“It’s not stupid,” Phichit says, rubbing his shoulder patiently, soothingly. “Do you want to stay in today? We can unpack the new stock at the store tomorrow, that’s not a problem.”

“No, no,” Yuuri sighs, setting the carton down. It looked a lot less appealing all of a sudden. “I think it’ll be better if I keep myself busy, and your store is perfect for escaping, even for a little while. If I stay indoors like this, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

“Are you sure?”

Yuuri shakes his head vigorously. “I have to let this go. It was a good night, a great night, but it was just one night. I can... _will_ move on.”

“Hmm,” Phichit swirled his spoon into the ice cream. “How much of that do you really believe?”

“Am I really that transparent?”

“Look, it’s not fun watching you pine away for this guy because anyone who decides to ghost you like that doesn’t deserve your attention, in my opinion. My only doubt is that you’re so hung up on it, and you’ve never been someone to lay your cards so easily on the table. I don’t know what the fuck happened between you leaving the bar and now…”

Yuuri doesn’t have an answer for that either. And as time goes by, the only thing that makes sense is Seung-gil’s advice that he confront the situation head-on. But the mere idea of barging into _The First Step_ , heart in his hands, it terrifies him.

“I think I need a little more time. I need to make a decision.”

“Fair enough,” Phichit elbows him with a playful smile. “Well, if there’s one good thing that came out of this experience, it’s you finally ditching those horrid ties and blazers.”

Yuuri runs a hand over his newest vest; it’s more casual than the ones he kept for work and looked incredible with the dark jeans he paired it with. “I’ve gotten a lot of compliments on the look.”

“As well you should. Now, what’s next? First thing that crosses your mind, go!”

Yuuri smiles at his friend. “Maybe we can go dancing? You can bring Seung-gil too.”

Phichit punches the air. “That’s the spirit! I was also thinking this might be right up your alley.” He pitches his phone and Yuuri catches it easily, glancing at the screen.

“A 5k walk?”

“Not just any walk, Yuuri! This is the Wiggle Waggle Walk! It supports the Humane Society,” he says proudly. “Best Friends has their own, though it’s not for a few more months. But Seung-gil and his husky go to this one every year; he says it’s really fun and there are _so_ many dogs.”

Yuuri can’t help but match Phichit’s delight. “That’s perfect, exercise and dogs. What could be better?”

“Exactly!” Phichit cheers.

Yuuri gives a large sigh of resolve. “Side note, I think as soon as my lease is up, I need to get a new place. Somewhere that accepts pets. Did you know that precious little poodle is _still_ at the shelter? It’s been four months! She deserves better.”

Phichit makes some approving squeals. “Yes! A puppy is good! What else? Tell me more! Live your best life!”

Yuuri rolls his eyes at the overused platitude, but he lets his thoughts carry on regardless. “Work’s been better. The head of my department called me in for a meeting. Apparently my boss has been complaining about me, but my clients are thrilled. They’re going to give me even more autonomy, but…”

He bites his lip and Phichit looks at him curiously.

“Eros said that if I ever go solo they’ll break their contract with my company. They like me, and it just got me thinking, with a company like that behind me, I could do it, you know?”

“Go solo?” Phichit asks.

“Yeah. Am I crazy?”

“Nope!” Phichit jumps off the counter and takes Yuuri with him. “I always believed you could do it. I’ve just been waiting for you to consider it for yourself.”

“You have?”

“Sure! You already do my books, and all of my neighbors are always bemoaning how difficult it is to find a good accountant. One word from me, and they’ll all flock to you.”

Yuuri taps his finger to his lip in thought, remembering as he does the way Victor did the same thing.

“Come on,” Phichit tugs at his arm, pulling him from his moment of wistful reflection, “we’re going to get you some katsudon.”

“I thought we were cooking pad thai?”

“I changed my mind,” Phichit sings, taking the soggy carton and dumping it into the sink. “If you’re going to eat junk food, you might as well eat something that’s worth going to your ass.”

“You’re so mean,” Yuuri moans, even as he lets himself be led out of the apartment because, really, there’s nothing a good ole pork cutlet bowl can’t fix.

* * *

**Three Months Later...**

“I’m going back to the store.”

Yuuri’s declaration is abrupt, and he can’t blame Phichit for the way his head jerks up uncertainly.

“What store? You better not be cheating on me with some other vintage place!”

Yuuri laughs, chucking a dusting rag at his friend, careful to miss one of the dozens of vintage lamps they’re cleaning at Phichit’s store. It’s a sprawling, crowded maze of treasures that Yuuri has taken to frequenting more than ever over the past few months.

He isn’t working for himself just yet, but the framework is in place. He had a private meeting with Eros’s CEO who had told him explicitly, ‘Take your time putting the details together but, just so we’re clear, all you have to do is say the word and we’re there’.

Phichit also spent a few weeks spreading the good word about him to several of the neighboring businesses, and Yuuri now takes a half day each weekend looking over their books and developing processes to manage all their varied needs. Even Best Friends has offered to bring him on. His rates are far more attractive that what the charity is currently paying, and more importantly, they trusted him.

It took some more copious servings of ice cream, but he eventually built the courage to apply for his business license and is now waiting to hear back on his paperwork. He’s nervous, excited, exhilarated and worn out, but it’s the best feeling he’s had in months.

“The bookstore,” Yuuri finally says with conviction. “I’m happy with me, with the changes I’ve made, but the truth is, I really miss Victor.” He feels Phichit’s hand rest comfortingly on his shoulder. “I _want_ that second date, and even if it means I get turned down, I need to talk to him one more time.”

Phichit hugs him without warning. “I’m proud of you, and I’ll support this! Bring flowers. Maybe get a haircut.”

Yuuri snorts and ruffles the back of his hair which is now long enough that it could be _just_ pulled into a knot. “I don’t know if I’ll have time to get out to the IE to see Mari. I kind of just want to rip the band-aid off. You know how I am.”

“Yeah, once you decide something, you just have to go for it. I know. At least the man bun works for you.”

Yuuri grins to himself, getting back to work. “You know, they really need to find a better solution for dusting.”

“You’re telling me. I swear half my day is spent cleaning off all this stuff. And when the Santa Anas blow, it’s even…” the chime over the door dings. “Welcome!” Phichit calls out merrily, as he ditches his feather duster and goes to greet his customers. Yuuri spies one head of two-toned blonde curls and another covered in a stylish white sunhat, and he stows away his own duster; it isn’t a good idea to kick up a dust storm in front of Phichit’s patrons. He smiles and pulls out his laptop instead, opening to the QuickBooks interface to work on Phichit’s books. For years he helped Phichit for free, but with his new business venture starting, Phichit wanted to pay him. Yuuri insisted on charging only what Phichit could afford - which was apparently a lot, the mark-up on his goods was insane.

“I’m going to start asking for a discount when I shop here,” Yuuri mutters as his friend shimmies back around the counter after checking on the talkative pair now shrouded in the store’s clutter.

Phichit laughs as he clacks away on his own computer. “Get this,” he says in a low whisper. “That customer is Christophe Giacometti, the owner of that lounge.”

“Seriously?” Yuuri hisses, craning his neck for another look; he thought the hair looked familiar. “Oh God, I hope he doesn’t remember me.”

Phichit chuckles and continues in a soft, but more normal voice. “So, what’s your plan? You might want to leave within the next half hour so you won’t have time to drive yourself crazy on the highway.””

It might be Saturday, but Phichit does have a point. “I’m not sure. As of right now, my plan is just to show up and ask Victor on a date with a side of self-doubt. I mean, I’m fully expecting to get rejected, but I have to try.”

“Look at you, Yuuri, being bold! I’m so proud.”

“Yuuri? The accountant with the blue-rimmed glasses?”

Yuuri and Phichit look towards Christophe who is advancing towards the counter, eyes narrowing at Yuuri, burning fierce behind his round glasses. His shopping partner rounds the corner from behind a display of several tin lunch boxes with rare Sailor Moon artwork emblazoned on them. They look at Yuuri with one of the brightest smiles he’s ever been offered, and it would’ve put him at ease if it wasn’t for Christophe’s growing rigidity.

“Um, yes, I’m Yuuri,” he shrinks under the harsh scrutiny. “How can I help–”

“You son of a bitch!” Christophe explodes as his partner opens their mouth. “You’re him, aren’t you? The guy who Victor harbored a secret crush on for months even though you disappeared off the face of the earth. Who shows up again out of fucking nowhere, fucks my friend and then ditches him before the sun was even up? Who didn’t even leave a note? Who just dragged Victor’s emotions around like some sort of toy, dommed him, and then split without even doing any proper aftercare? You’re the piece of shit that played my best friend?”

Phichit’s eyes widen and he looks about ready to jump the counter. Christophe’s partner doesn’t seem entirely surprised by the outburst; they whisper something and Christophe shoots them an indistinct look and mouths ‘Excuse me?’. Yuuri stares at them both, blinking, confusion tearing over him like a tsunami is some cheap disaster flick.  

“What the hell do you mean played him?” Phichit grits after a few tense seconds, offended on Yuuri’s behalf. “Yuuri’s been waiting for Victor to call for months!”

“I left my number,” Yuuri says quietly, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “How do you know Victor? Are you saying he...he wanted me?”

 “I…” Christophe’s mouth opens and closes like he doesn’t know what to say. Phichit’s head swings back and forth between them, and Yuuri is terribly lightheaded from the short encounter.

“Well,” the fourth voice suddenly interjects and their focus shifts to them; Yuuri wipes under his eyes, taking a closer look at the long brown hair and slim trench coat. “As I was just telling Chris, I believe Yuuri and our dear Victor have both been deprived of some very crucial information. I was planning to come see you on Monday, Yuuri, at your office.”

“But how–”

“I’ve done enough business in this city to know how to find someone when I really need to, and considering the look on Victor’s face when he told me the whole story and my own, ah, investigation of this mishap…”

Yuuri gapes, brain muddled with the impression that he’s missing something very obvious.

“You don’t remember me, Yuuri?”

“What?” Yuuri says slowly, “Remember...you…” and then it clicks. “Wait, you sold me my Camaro! You gave me a hell of a discount because I answered your riddle correctly!”

“And how do you repay me?” Minako Okukawa tsks with a huff and glare that is offset by the amused quirking of her lip. “By putting your ass on my bar!”

Yuuri blinks, once, twice, and a third flabbergasted time as all the pieces begin to slot into their neat little places, and he blurts, “ _Your_ bar?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! So much happened in this chapter and we love it - and hope you did too! Things are shaking up and we're super excited for next chapter when Victor gives us his POV. ;) Wonder what he's been up to and where that gosh darn number slipped off too...and Minako! (≧∀≦) We've been dying to reveal her!
> 
> In case anyone was a bit confused, this chapter takes place over three months. It was really confusing to try and describe it so we decided that all of the time headers were from the day they met. Hope that's not too confusing for anyone!
> 
> Here's Yuuri's morning jam: [2NE1 - I am the Best](https://youtu.be/j7_lSP8Vc3o).
> 
> Lots of references in this chapter that were tons of fun to slip in there. If you're familiar with LA you probably recognized a few. Hope you all enjoyed - comments/kudos/shares/etc. are always appreciated! If you're having fun, be sure to hit us up in the comments because we loooooove comments! They make our day! Thanks again and see you next chapter!
> 
> EDIT: [Glorious art for our beloved Viktor!!!](http://ajwolf84.tumblr.com/post/176890359272/alexwspark-and-i-commissioned-this-piece-by).

**Author's Note:**

> You can catch us on Twitter or Tumblr!  
> Alex: [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AlexWSpark), [Tumblr](https://alexwspark.tumblr.com/)  
> AJ: [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AJWolf84), [Tumblr](http://ajwolf84.tumblr.com/)


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